© J A D Healey 2014
I arrived at Nottingham Station with about 10 minutes to spare, and found Bob already waiting, "Where's your axe?" he asked. I left my pack with him and jumped into the nearest taxi and explained my need, but I felt the driver wasn't really with me – actually his clock was about 5 minutes fast and he thought I couldn't possibly do it. We waited an age before getting out of the station and then every traffic light was against us, but I just made it. Bob had the two cases on the platform. We didn't get a seat, but settled down in the corridor.
The train was a little late into St. Pancras, but we got a taxi across to Victoria and arrived at about 9.15 and made our way to the station master's office, where a girl was waiting, in a green coat. She had our tourist tickets which she gave us in exchange for the ordinary tickets we already had. There was no further hitch. Frank was waiting at Preston Park Station and took us via the floodlit rockery to Maldon, where Betty's cooking impressed Bob.
After much shopping and calling in at home, we caught the 9.16 and had to change at Lewes for Newhaven – Bob soon got into conversation with some fishermen in the second train. We had no trouble with the officials, and were soon aboard the Brighton and putting our rucksacks on a bit of seat, before returning to the other side to watch the crowds from the boat trains. We recognised Bob's friend Bernard, also Ray Colledge, Denis Davies etc. We ate quite a lot of the food Betty had given us, but eventually went down for a meal – the last sitting.
We were the wrong side of the boat for disembarking, but eventually got off, managed to get our seats on the train and then I discovered that the rest of my sock wool, which I had stuffed into an outside rucksack pocket, was missing. I went over to the boat, found that the porters didn't speak English, so had to try to explain in French.
At first they seemed to say that I'd never be allowed back on the boat. Then they seemed to say why wasn't I going on, so I went past the English official who gave me another landing card. I went round the boat, but there was no sign of my brown paper parcel; however, one of the first porters I spoke to had followed me, and he talked to another porter, who drew out 2 ounces of wool from one trouser pocket and the other 2 from the other pocket. The train left almost as soon as I reboarded it!
At Paris we left our kit in the left luggage and then Bob and I went up the Avenue de Cliché to a cheap restaurant he knew.
On the way we passed a sports shop, so Bob went in to see about an axe. They had about 5 axes in the shop and Bob bought one of them, a Charlet. I was amazed how easily he was suited.
We went on to the restaurant where Bob was disappointed not to find the girl who spoke English. I forget what we had, but I know that every bit of bread we ate was put on the bill, which mounted up.
We then made for another café where Bob had a beer, and I enjoyed a Neapolitan ice cream. We made our way back to the Gare St. Lazarre, collected our luggage and went by Metro to the Gare de Lyon and made enquiries about our train. I was disgusted to find that, with our reservation, we had to catch a later train and change at Lyon. We were in time for the Grenoble train and decided to travel on it, despite the fact that all the seats were booked. We sat in a carriage until turned out, but then someone in the next carriage spoke to us, and offered us reservations further up the train, which we gratefully bought.
The next carriage was quite amusing, there were a couple with a little boy – a boy who never got naughty and never got tired – who could talk most intelligently in French at any time of the night, and who was perpetually being washed in eau de Cologne. There was also an older woman who objected to our rucksacks on the floor – we wanted to fill in the space to make things more comfortable.
We arrived at Grenoble at 7 a.m. on a glorious day, and went straight to the bus station to try and get reservations. I spoke to the bearded man, and as usual tried my opening gambit, "Parlez-vous Anglais?". He replied in the same language, "But you speak very good French, continue" – so I struggled on. The next time I came back I forgot and addressed him in English, which he spoke perfectly! We learned that there were no places on the 8 o'clock bus, but that they might run a special at 9 o'clock.
We learned that we could change cheques at the station buffet, duly did so, and then came back to learn where Bob could buy boots. The bearded man made a phone call, gave us an address, we found the sports shop and a young lad let us in the back way, but, unfortunately, he had no boots the right size. He took us to another sports shop, but that was shut, but he eventually left us with an agreement that if Bob couldn't get any at La Bérade, the bus would take him up a pair. Next we had a look round the shops; there were various stalls in the market, selling footgear, but no climbing boots, eventually we found an unlikely looking shop, but the young man was exceedingly obliging, and soon produced a pair of boots to Bob's taste. At the end, he handed over a tin of dubbin, Bob asked if he had a smaller one, to which he replied that he was making a present of the dubbin.
I think it was at this stage we could relax enough to return to the buffet for a café complet – masses of lovely honey – and we learned from the Austrian couple that there had been no 9 o'clock bus to La Bérade.
We wandered round the town, but I was too anxious about my unattended luggage to really enjoy it. Eventually 4 o'clock came and we boarded the little bus to La Bérade – how I looked forward to a higher, cooler climate.
At first we made good time, but soon I began to realise why it took 4-5 hours to reach La Bérade – we stopped about half an hour in each village – the first halt being Bourg d'Oisans. After this halt the journey soon became thrilling and there would have been the most glorious shots for our cameras. Part of the road would be marked that passing was permitted anywhere, and the rest that it was forbidden, except at "garages" as they labelled each passing place. I shouldn't have thought that there was any need to forbid it at other places, for there was usually a considerable drop on the outside. There were two horns, he used them either separately or together to hoot his way round each corner!
We enjoyed the detour up to St. Christoph and admired the position of Les Etages, and at long last, at about 9 o'clock arrived at La Bérade.
We had been led to believe that there was a kind of 'Biolay'; we enquired at the most likely looking place, but the man shook his head, and sent a child over to find a room for us in a little hotel – the room was an exorbitant price (considering), so we tried to find the Austrians – they had taken a room at a similar place, so we enquired the price of a meal there. It was about 500 fr. so we gave it up, and went back to the straw, and asked if we could sleep in the loft. We received permission when we said that we didn't smoke and possessed a pocket torch. The proper dortoir was full of a youth party, a few of whom spoke a little English. We took down our primus and started cooking, much to the amazement of an old lady who came out of a nearby door.
We returned to the same place and cooked breakfast, in what we soon learned was the run for the chicken and goats. There were also pigs inside, but they never came out. We cleared up, bought a few odds and ends, packed, gave our base camp gear to Madame (the old lady) to look after and sat and wrote all our holiday postcards, before starting up for the Pilatte hut.
We had sundry halts for photographs and then stopped for milk at the Alp de Carrelet.
We continued on south, eventually stopping to brew up – the water was nearly boiling – I looked for the tea and it wasn't there – oh, calamity! – and the last thing Bob had said to me, before we left the luggage, was "Have you got the tea?" – I said yes, knowing that I'd put it out and thinking that if it wasn't in my pack it would be in his, but somehow it had been put away.
We continued along the valley, a glorious colourful place, with all the flowers in the foreground and Les Bans behind. Eventually we crossed the stream and started zigzagging up – across a few tongues of snow. Then we saw the mules, which had left La Bérade that morning, go down, and then, long before I expected it, there was the hut. When I got over the brow, I expected to see the hut in the distance, instead, there it was at my feet, and a few yards further on were the foundations of the new one which was being built. We immediately ordered coffee, to make up for our lack of tea, but it wasn't a success. We went out, past the new building and found the way down to the glacier, up which we went for a little way. Coming back I watched the builders, particularly the stone sifters – they'd put the fine stuff in one pile, and that which would just not go through the sieve in another, the small stones they threw away, but the larger ones they kept. It amazed me the way they brought down the stuff from above them, nearly on top of themselves, instead of getting above it.
And so back to cook, and clear up before the workmen came in for their meal.
We soon learned that most, at any rate, were Italian and I was rather reminded of the Midi hut, except that we weren't so much one party, as on that stormy day. Foolishly we hadn't bagged sleeping places when we arrived, but room was eventually found for us on the top deck, between the workmen and the guides. I had one of the latter next to me, and what a fidget and snorer he proved to be!
We were awakened with everyone at 3.30 and put on the primus and made a cup of chocolate, using a bar of the solid stuff, together with milk and sugar (we'd done the same the night before). We'd managed to bag some bread from the workmen the night before, for somehow ours had been left behind at the place we didn't make the tea, and so we were able to have bread and butter and marmalade for breakfast, and we were away by 4.15, after a couple of other parties. It was a glorious moonlight morning, and we were soon down to the glacier, following up it, and then following the tracks. One party branched off to the right, and the other continued up our way. I could see by the rope management that it was a guided party.
Bob seemed to think we ought not to wear crampons, but the snow was pretty firm, so when the way steepened I rebelled and put mine on, and we actually roped up, as we'd planned, on an uneven double rope, with foot loops in it, and continued up. It had been light for some time, but there was one glorious moment when the rocks of Les Bans took on a lovely rich colouring. We continued up and up. I found it a slog, although we were going very, very slowly; however, when we reached the col we found that we were ahead of schedule (there were no snow difficulties). Next came a more interesting part, along a crest, and, at first, an icy part to get up, and then up and down and we had caught up the guided party who were breakfasting. We also stopped to de-crampon and eat. I thought there was still more snow to come, so, when they set off without axes, I went after them to see the way and the guide asked if we wanted to follow them. I was non-committal – it was the same guide as I had suffered from all night.
Eventually we were ready and set off, with the rope re-arranged and single – the yellow rock looked most imposing, but when we got on it, we found that it was certainly no more than the 'pd' the book had said; relatively soon, we caught up the other party, and the guide tried to help a little, for instance if we got a few feet off the official route, although really it was possible to take any line up, he'd indicate where we ought to go.
Near the top there was a little pitch which was quite moderate, and then, long before I expected (at 8 o'clock to be precise) we were on the summit. We joined the other party and looked at the view, and I found that the high peak to the east was Monte Veno.
The guided party then moved over to the other side of the summit and waited. Eventually we got up, and the other party followed (they obviously didn't want stones knocked down on them!). We were very much quicker, being a party of two, moving together, but we lost our advantage near the bottom of the rocks when we found some flowers which simply had to be photographed – finally Bob removed a little bunch to a place where he could get a glacier and mountains in the background. This was a crime, for the roots went so far down between the stones that all he could do was tear off the flowers and leaves. Somehow the way its roots grew down, I realised that, to grow in that position, it wasn't quite the gentle little plant I had thought from the beauty of its flowers.
Back at the breakfast place, the guide again suggested that we should go down first, but we explained that we were waiting to photograph them as they moved off – we finally left at about 10.40, and, as the guided party had moved one at a time along the snow crest, I suggested that we did the same, actually I don't know that there was really any need.
All went well until we came to the icy part; first I slipped and then, failing to cut usable steps, I let myself down on my pick. Bob, without a rope above him had no trouble cuttings steps, and then moving down on them.
We followed the tracks over the snow-bridges (we were again on a doubled rope), but had no trouble and, under my influence, Bob kept on the rope until we reached the dry glacier, getting back to the hut at 12 or 1 o'clock, where we made soup and had a little to eat before starting the descent.
I was stumped at the Carrelet alp when they said they had no milk; Bob suggested I asked for cider, to which the man replied that he had none, but he had Perrier – I immediately thought of "pear cider" and agreed to try it, unfortunately it turned out to be soda water.
I arrived at La Bérade alone, for Bob had stopped to wash on the way down. We cooked in our usual place, and rather interfered with Madame getting the hens to bed!
The day had been too good a beginning I thought. Everything had gone without a hitch (apart from the tea and bread) and we had been slightly up on guidebook times, while the weather had co-operated to the full.
We had the morning about the village, watching the clouds, which depressed Bob for he said that the wind had changed.
In the afternoon we set off for the Temple Ecrins hut. This time it seemed no distance to the Carrelet Alp. I simply set my legs in motion for an hour, and in an hour they stopped outside the hut. This time we both indulged in bowls of milk.
Next we started up the zigzags to the hut, but I doubt if two alpinists have ever taken so long on this track before. The view of Les Bans was superb, the whole way up, and there were trees as foreground, but what stopped us was the alpine rose, the first of the holiday, unfortunately the lower flowers, which we wished to photograph were dead, so Bob picked some of those beneath the fir tree, and put them in a strategic position. I got out my extension tubes and then waited. I must have waited quite an hour, the sky was very overcast by this time and in the rare intervals when the sun almost came out, so would the breeze disturb the flowers. Eventually we took the photos, and also photographed a peculiar green flower, and then continued up to the hut.
I was astonished at the appearance of the hut. I think I thought that the 'Temple' of "Temple-Ecrins" would refer to the hut. All was explained when I found that the previous hut had been destroyed by an avalanche – then I realised what was familiar about the hut. It was modelled on a railway avalanche shelter, with the front filed in and supplied with windows.
The guardian asked if we were for Pic Coolidge and, when we said Les Ecrins, showed us into an empty and cheerless dormitory.
We cooked our supper, watched a brightening in the weather outside, and eventually went to bed, finding two others in our dormitory, a youngish, likely looking guide and a client of similar age. When I learned that they also were for our peak I thought that we ought to make quite a jolly party – how I prayed for good weather!
The lady woke us at 2 o'clock, but, after a look at the weather, the guide told her that he wouldn't be going. I accepted his word, but not so Bob, who looked out and suggested that we got ready in case it cleared. I meekly got up and folded my blanket, and then put on the primus for tea. The lady came back so that we could pay our bill.
Fortunately the storm came before we'd started, and we could go back to bed, although I was thoroughly awake by this time.
We next got up at a reasonable hour, the trouble was that we'd brought only the minimum of food, thinking we'd have to carry everything on the traverse – I had to admit that Bob's grape-nuts came in very useful for second breakfast.
Two elderly French from Grenoble started to speak to us in English; they had come all the way just for one climb, which was to be Pic Coolidge and, later on, as the weather began to clear, they set out in that direction. Later we followed them; Bob forbade me to look at the book, saying that we'd find our own way, but I think he was soon surprised at the scale of the ridges. We trudged up and up, but the mist didn't clear as we'd hoped. Eventually we stopped, just below where two French parties had stopped. We at the chocolate we had with us and waited, getting colder and colder, until I agreed with Bob that we might as well turn back. We set off down and felt rather silly as a 'collectif' passed us, full of enthusiasm for the summit.
We bought 'pommes de terres' at the hut, and then went out for an afternoon's photography, but it wasn't too successful; the sun didn't really co-operate. I remember spending an hour at one place waiting for a peak to come out of the mist. My great thrill was to find three edelweiss growing – the first I have every found.
We had decided not to climb the next day, but to spend the night at the hut, as it was cheaper, more comfortable and far more convenient than our quarters at La Bérade, the only snag was our shortage of food. Bob was very disappointed that I wouldn't consider say the Pic Nord des Cavales on my way up to the Promontoire hut, but I said that I couldn't do the Meije after an ascent of 7,000 ft the previous day, even if he could!
It was a perfect morning, we were still in the Les Ecrins dortoire and at 4 or 6 o'clock (I forget which) the guardian came in to know whether we were going to climb that day and we said no. I expect he was disgusted for we hadn't gone to bed until 10 o'clock the night before. Four Irish boys had arrived just before 9 o'clock and had proceeded to cook themselves a meal, and we had stayed chatting until sent to bed, apparently the guardian's son sleeps on the balcony and wanted to sleep!
We reached La Bérade in good time, and re-arranged our luggage, taking only the barest minimum up to the Promontoire hut. Just as we had got all the rest of the stuff packed into my big rucksack, a bus arrived, so I asked the driver about taking it to Bourg d'Oisans. There was no trouble at all. He charged me 100 fr., gave me a slip of paper with the address of the café where I'd find it, and, when I lamented the fact that I had no labels to stick on it, he wrote my name on a strap – it was as simple as that, yet it had been a great weight on my mind.
At about 12 o'clock we set off, promising ourselves a fire and a meal before very long. After about half a mile (uphill!), we came to the streams from the glacier de la Boume Pierre. There was wood about, and it seemed just the place for our picnic. I collected mainly alder, but then I found some juniper and remembered that this was the traditional stuff for campfires among mountaineers. Bob lit the fire and did the cooking, while I wandered off with my cameras. The bacon and egg were delicious, and the tea had the real tang of the wood fire.
Soon after 1 o'clock we continued on our way, stopping occasionally to photograph the Meije straight ahead up the long Valley des Etençons and also for some of the flowers which were incredibly prolific in this stony valley.
We passed the Refuge du Chatelleret and then on up the interminable band of moraine. Near the top a man on his way down stopped to talk; he told us that he had left Chatelleret after us and by going up the snow had got in front of us; I didn't bother to point out that he was carrying nothing!
Across a little bit of snow and then a pleasant rock scramble up to the hut, a wooden building with a magnificent stone built little place just behind, and it actually smelt of disinfectant!
Bob and I dumped our things and then, very soon, started up the ridge to look out the route. I soon turned back, but Bob announced that, after the first few moves it seemed plain sailing and he also returned. We found that there was a little water in the hut and soon started cooking.
Two Frenchmen soon arrived, and, on hearing that we were for the Meije, gave us a warning, not to pull down our rappel rope from the Grand Pic until we had found whether it would be possible to climb the verglaced north side of the Dent Zigmondy. They quoted a friend of theirs who had spent three days on the ridge, unable to make the Dent 'go' and unable to return up the Grand Pic without their abseil rope. The next arrivals were two Swiss, Ferd, and his older friend, George; they soon recognised me, having spoken to me on my descent from the Pilatte hut and they recognised in Bob my friend who was behind, washing that day!
Apparently they and the French boys had been weather bound in the hut earlier in the week and we could thank them for the fact that it was so ship-shape.
The two French boys were for the Pt. de Chamoz, and later two others arrived for La Meije and, after all drinking tea together, we went to bed, saying that we'd get up at 3 o'clock the next morning.
At 3 o'clock no-one stirred, so I got up, look out the window and saw that it was misty, but remembered the Weisshorn day and started the primus. Soon everyone else was up and, after we'd all breakfasted, they looked out and were most annoyed with me, said that I might have told them it was misty, and went back to bed again. Only old George agreed with me that it would clear later.
A few hours later, we went out to see the Alpine glow over the Pt. des Charmoz and at about 7 o'clock the French set out, the two for the Charmoz and two for the Grand Pic de la Meije. George thought that he was going to start for the traverse, but he had trouble getting Ferd up, and once up, Ferd demanded a hot drink, and so time was wasted until even George had to admit that it was too late to set out, and he went back to sleep.
Bob and I eventually set out for the Brèche de la Meije; Bob at first thought to make the rock more interesting, but soon gave up, and we realised that, if we could get up at all, it would be as much as we could do. There were no positive holds on the rock, much was loose and the rest was covered with wet sand. I hated every moment of it, and began to realise why the boys from La Bérade had put in the book "Brèche de la Meije, sans guide" – it was just the sort of place where one needs a guide.
Eventually we were up, and thrilled with the view over towards La Bérade, the trouble was that the light wasn't very good for photographs. I loved the villages, all so compact, then there were the terraced fields, and finally the steep sided green hills.
We also saw that there was a way down, for we were determined to get down to La Grave, even if we couldn't traverse La Meije the next day.
We got some grand photographs on our way back to the hut, for the sun came out at last.
In the afternoon, Ferd and I were sitting in the sun, when a man and a young lad arrived, friends of Ferd, and the latter suggested that the four of us should start up the ridge to look out the way, Bob and George being asleep. After the Brèche du Crapaud, the others continued up, but the man looked at me and spoke to Ferd, who suggested that we roped, but then gave me the lead. We traversed to the left of the 'Crapaud' (toad) – my cameras nearly pushing me off balance – and then continued up, Ferd, I'm afraid, doing most of the rope management, and he showed me how to take in the rope so as not to hold it in coils. The two in front went at a terrific rate, and I tried to keep up, eventually they stopped and roped up, and I had time to shed my anorak and cameras.
The leader obviously found the next part difficult, so Ferd told me to continue straight up; I tried it, but found it more than vertical, so I took the same line to the left as the others, and found it easy enough. Of course, we were too high! We went onto the level of the incredible isolated Yellow Gendarme, and then looked over into the couloir, just as the two Frenchmen were arriving back from the Pic Central. They said that it had been cold and misty on top and the rocks rather iced, so I was glad that people hadn't listened to me that morning about setting out for the traverse.
Back at the hut, I felt that Bob was a little put out at not being called for the outing. Three other people had arrived, an Englishman, his Swiss guide, and another young Swiss. Our fuel gave out before the meal was ready, but we used the wood fire to finish our cooking, with a clear conscience, for we had brought back wood we had found on the Brèche – obviously ski markers.
People looked out at 3 o'clock, but said that the weather was doubtful, and then at 4 o'clock the guide looked out again, with the same result, but at 5.20 he got up, and we all did the same; personally I had been very glad of the extra sleep.
George was soon up and starting the fire; I greatly admired the way he did it, and also the way he made the most of the little bit of wood he used.
We were away by 6 o'clock, the two new arrivals were first, then Ferd and George. Bob and I were next; we left as the guided party were packing their rucksacks. I counted 4 grapefruits which they were carrying!
Ferd didn't seem to have learned the route from our trip. We were still all much too high, and the guided party gained on us before the couloir. It was rather pleasant after this (I thought). Obviously the first party, despite all their energy, weren't very quick on real climbing and there were many hold ups – and the leader of the last party would follow me rather closely. The guide was in the middle, they called him Franz, and I began to put two and two together, with the "Lochi" embroidered on his cap and realised that he must be young Franz Lochmatter. The leader was a school friend of his, who had joined the party for the fun of the thing – the Englishman carried nothing!
It seemed very pleasant to be on the middle of three ropes, all talking English – Ferd amused me a lot, as he said he could understand English perfectly, he'd been to school in England, but he couldn't talk it. English, French and German words came out indiscriminately!
We were able to get one or two photographs of the Swiss pair on some of the rock pitches; George led, Ferd wasn't quite so happy on rock, but later we were to realise his value on snow and ice. They made a good team.
All we did was follow up the little rock pitches, book in sack, so I'm rather vague about the IIIs – and I feel they're all such historic pitches, as each has its name, e.g. La dalle Castelnau, le Dos d'Ane, la Dalle des Austrichiens, and the Pas du Chat.
Mostly they were one move pitches, and not under-graded; I found it very pleasant in the hot sunshine, especially when we reached the Glacier Carré in 3 hours instead of the guidebook's 4 hours. The party behind stopped in the sunshine before the glacier; we went up into the shade of the Brèche du Glacier Carré and had a short halt there, before tackling the Grand Pc. This part was very different, it was in the shade, much of the rock was verglaced and also it was frosted over. We all took our own line up; the first party went too far to the right, and the Swiss were able to get in front, but meanwhile the guided party had kept right to the left, and, starting last, had overtaken everyone. Apparently the leader expected the Cheval Rouge to be to the right, but Franz said to the left; Franz was right and led it, and then offered George a rope down, an offer which was gratefully accepted and then extended down the line of waiting parties. At last I was able to stop and put on my woolly, while we were waiting, for it was very cold in the shade, also I missed the good belays we'd had lower down, and I found trouble in distinguishing firm rocks from rocks frozen in, in fact a couple came away in my hand.
We waited about an hour for our turn at the horse, which put us back to guidebook time. I was the last up the thing, and felt rather neglected. It would be easy enough normally, for there are holds on the slab, but this day they were verglaced and, even when I'd got one hand on a jug, I couldn't do anything as my vibrams slipped off the ice. However, I realised that I'd got to get up, so I jammed a boot in the crack to enable me to get another hand over the top, and then turning round, I saw a foothold on the wall behind my head, which enabled me to get up and straddle the edge. Perhaps it was as well there was no-one else to see me! On the top we found the guided party about to move off – Bob and I decided to follow without a halt, for we'd duly photographed the view from the Brèche and the ridge in front of us was rapidly disappearing into the mist. The Swiss pair soon followed us, and the other two were left to descend the same way. I wasn't altogether sorry, for energy doesn't replace technique on a mountain such as the Meije.
The party ahead had 60 m of English type rappel rope. Franz went down first, without a lifeline and his friend was last; he seemed to think he ought to leave their rope for us, but I said we didn't want to delay them.
Next I got our spare rope nicely fixed, but then followed quite an argument with Ferd, and he insisted on reorganising things and tying his own 40 m climbing rope to the spare one and then making George go down first. I was most unkind and suggested that George might get down quicker if he used a sling. Near the bottom I came to the end of my lifeline, but I managed to stand somewhere and untie. Fortunately, I kept hold of the end for Bob also untied!
When we were all down, I was most reluctant to have the ropes drawn down, until I'd seen the other party up the Dent Zigmondy, but Ferd was again impatient, of course that party would make it 'go'.
We went down and sat on the Brèche, waiting for the way to be clear and then Bob set off up. It was a most ferocious looking place. Firstly it was necessary to traverse, crawling under an overhang, and then there were the steep verglaced north slabs. Bob's impression, one he got along the traverse, was of a spare rope as handrail, hanging down, and then hanging over nothing, but it was quickly drawn up, before he could use it.
I followed Bob along the traverse and belayed him from there, I was glad to hear that he'd found a piton or so and was most relieved when he got on a runner. I followed him up to a stance in a superb position on the edge, and then I drew up our spare rope, on the end of which George was climbing. He got up quite rapidly and then we sent down the spare rope and George and Bob hauled up the sacks. Ferd tied a piece of thin string to them, to guide them.
We had noticed in the first party that the leader had left his sack and that Franz had climbed up with both.
Eventually all was organised, and Bob and I went on, leaving George to bring up Ferd. We could see the other party, several 'teeth' in front by now.
We should have moved together on all the rest of the traverse, I'm sure, but I preferred to move singly most of the way; actually the snow was in good condition, but I didn't like it, as I couldn't get my axe in, as a belay, very often.
There would have been superb photographs, but at the Dent Zigmondy I had put my cameras in my pack and felt that I simply couldn't be bothered with them. Actually the 'Dents' were close together and didn't take very long, but I began to get bored with them and eventually we reached the snow of the Pic Central and started following the tracks round. Eventually after I'd been round in a circle, I realised that we'd have to go to the summit after all (the previous party had also gone in the circle. I was a little satisfied to hear later that even that party had hoped to avoid the summit!). Bob and I had a little to eat on top, and the others got ahead. Coming down, I was sure we'd missed the way, for the book mentioned firm rock, and we were on rotten stuff – perhaps the normal way was iced over. Soon we found an abseil sling, and out came the 45 m again and we were down to one col – and then a little further, and we could see Ferd, and George was disappearing into the mist, rappelling on their 40 m. Ferd told us to hurry down. I queried whether it was the right place, for the book had mentioned iron. Ferd got quite impatient and told me to come down. I started to follow the way he pointed, and a whole lot of rocks, partially frozen in came away. I kept my own balance, but I had to let the rocks go – fortunately they missed George – I found a better way after that, but it wasn't very good.
George was out of sight in the mist by now, 40 m down, with no news of the bergschrund, so Ferd tied our rope to the 40 m one, and George (reluctantly I felt) cut himself a step and evened the ropes, and went on down, and just managed to get over the 'schrund'.
Now it was my turn, I remembered the unkind advice I'd given George on the Grand Pic, for here, with the knot in the rope, I couldn't use a sling, I had to put the rope round my thigh and fight my way down; occasionally there was a little soft snow, but mostly there was clear ice for my feet. About half of it went alright, but after that I began to feel the stretch on the rope – it seemed to go on for ever, this forcing of the rope round me, and I was so alone on this iced slope, with those above disappearing from sight, and George not yet appearing below me. Eventually the bergschrund and George came into view (I don't think I had really believed before that George had crossed the bergschrund, it seemed incredible that those extra 2 or 3 m of rope had made all the difference and the book had mentioned a 35 m rappel – I was quite sure we were in the wrong place).
Normally I know all about overhangs and I got ready to avoid knocking my hands on this; I don't know whether it was the stretch on the rope, or my eagerness to get down, but I found my hand trapped in the groove worn by the rope, and when I was down, I found I was dripping blood onto the snow. I thought I'd never get disentangled from the rope; I thought I'd never force those last few feet round me and I was as breathless as though I'd tried to climb up the rope, instead of merely slide down it.
The bergschrund was filled in with soft snow, but I made for the lower lip, where George was standing before letting go of the rope. Bob came down next and finally Ferd – how I envied the latter, happily puffing at his pipe on the way down; he'd put on his crampons, which he kept for the rest of the descent. We all tied onto one rope, and at first Ferd trailed our spare rope behind, saying it would do it good, until we rebelled! I went down first, but there were no further difficulties in the way; we found the mist had only been a local cloud between the col and the bergschrund, and we photographed the view lower down. It was very lovely with the sun and clouds, and the country round La Grave, so different from that to the south. All day the mountains to the north had been in cloud, and we guessed that we wouldn't have got in a climb had we been at Chamonix.
The Aigle refuge was about the same size as the Promontoire, and just as isolated, but it was only just above the glacier. We reached it at about 7 o'clock, so there was no question of going further down, although we had no fuel. The other party had been installed for about an hour. I was actually introduced to Franz. The Englishman (Richard Ayrton) told me that they had gone further along the col, had descended soft snow all the way and had had a bridge over the 'Schrund'! He also said that all the way along the traverse, he'd been provided with handhold ropes and little rappels.
I was most grateful for a cup of hot sweet tea, which I shared with Bob.
There was no firewood in the hut, so Bob set about collecting paper, and all my odds and ends of candles, with which he made a fire and melted snow – he couldn't get the water more than lukewarm, so we put the soup powder into that – it was pan-flake soup and all the little squares were quite hard, but it went down very well. We divided our next to last slab of chocolate between us and went to bed in good time. I was amazed to see Franz and his friend going over the book for the first time that day, obviously finding a new mountain as exciting as any amateur would have done.
The weather had been quite bad in the night, but Ferd and George got up with the dawn and set out. The rest of us got up about 7 o'clock, just as the two Swiss arrived back, saying that there was thick mist, and the way was too complicated in that weather.
Franz brewed quite a lot of tea which he distributed to the improvident party, and then, at Ferd's suggestion, we roped up with them and the rope of four set out for the perilous descent of the Tabuchet Glacier. The three were just behind and soon overtook us, for George was very, very cautious in breaking the trail in new snow.
We soon got onto dry glacier, but there was no suggestion of crampons, even after a minor slip on my part. The next incident was a jump with a doubtful landing – those not knowing me must have been horrified at the time I took for it.
For the next incident, I wasn't paying attention to Bob's rope (I was third on the rope); George jumped and slipped and pulled Bob, who landed over the crevasse, minus his axe – I was most impressed at the capable way in which Ferd grabbed the rope to Bob and held him. After this I dared to suggest crampons – Ferd got out an ice peg, knocked it in without one of those ton weight hammers, belayed everyone to it, and let us put on crampons. After that everything went smoothly, the only hitches came at two other jumps where I rather held up proceedings. Near the bottom George insisted on cuttings steps, although I had the idea Ferd didn't consider them necessary.
The way was extremely crevassed, but Franz's route led down without hesitating.
At the bottom, Ferd was in favour of going straight down, it was a perfectly horrible way, loose rock and water worn slabs. We took the rope again at one point, but then traversed over to the right and, after a nasty traverse onto the moraine, we started down it. There wasn't the usual definite path. When we got down to the grass, it was hardly any more than a sheep track and, as we went on down and down, began to realise that it would be an appalling slog to come up this way. A great recompense would be the flowers. George soon stopped to point out the edelweiss. Ferd had hurried on down; his wife had expected him the previous day. At first we stayed with George, but then lost him. We continued slowly, praying that the sun would come out, for we were longing to photograph the flowers and mountains, if only the mist would lift on the latter. Failing the photographs, I picked a bunch of assorted flowers, and they decorated our table at the Biolay the next day, before being pressed.
Eventually we reached the river (Romanche) and made our way up to La Grave – quite a respectable type of village – there were various cafés, but I made my way to the nearest largish hotel, Les Alpes. It had something up about the C.A.F. and we went in there for a meal. Inside we met the Englishman, very spick and span, after a bath – he greeted us rather "What, only just down (we got down about 11.30), we were down at 10.15".
We didn't see him again; I expect he carried out his suggestion of hiring a car to take them round to La Bérade where he enjoyed the food, and where his own car was left.
On the menu we'd looked at the 500 fr. meal, but instead I turned reckless and ordered the one at 650 fr. After all we had arrears to make up.
We started with beetroot, onion and paté. Next came an egg and bacon pie, followed by the main course, then cheese and fruit. Having eaten, we washed, and then went into a café for coffee. I was foolish enough to buy bus tickets in the café and mistook the time quoted for the bus (I never was hot on French numbers) the result was that, at about 3 o'clock, we had to watch a beautiful blue bus leave without us for Grenoble, for our tickets weren't valid on it. We sat on, finished the melon which we had brought, and watched the rain which was falling by this time (we didn't get the famous view of La Meije at all) and at about 4 o'clock our rickety, old, brown bus stopped. It was marked Bourg d'Oisans, so we knew we'd have to change, and I was afraid it would be as slow as the one to La Bérade. I kept remembering our promise to Pete and Ken, that we'd arrive in Chamonix on Monday.
We drove down to the post office and the driver got out, but the brakes obviously weren't on; we didn't know at the time whether he was the forgetful type, or whether the brakes didn't work – we decided it was the latter.
Just outside the village there was a longish hold up, there was single line traffic and we had to wait while a lorry parked on the one lane, and men threw gravel onto the other half of the road.
It was quite an interesting run, along by a reservoir etc. We went round several villages, delivered much mail and parcels, but the driver seemed to know he was late and actually ran, and never gossiped.
At Bourg d'Oisans I asked about the Grenoble bus and was told to stay on and go to the station. Then I asked about the café with our extra rucksack and, despite the fact that he was about to drive off, the driver made no bones about waiting while Bob collected it.
At the bus station, we were directed to the Grenoble bus, a green one this time, and I left Bob to get the extra rucksack weighed and put on. Soon he came out for help; he hadn't understood that the man wanted to see his bus ticket. When I was called in I also had to show mine, and then they dealt with the luggage. By now, a man was standing guard over the bus, and wouldn't let us on without our tickets, I found mine, but Bob couldn't find his anywhere.
We spoke to the luggage man, but his word that we both had tickets wasn't enough to get Bob on the bus; I had another look through his wallet, and then Bob found the ticket in one of his pockets. The official looked at it and then handed it back to me with such a look.
We hardly stopped on the way and reached the station at about 6 o'clock and, to my delight, I found that there was a train to Chamberg at 6.30 and, at that station, we found a train to Annecy in 10 minutes time. We thought it time to eat again, so went along to the buffet. They told us there was plenty of time for coffee before our train. As soon as the coffee arrived, so did the train; fortunately I had taken along a mug, and I poured the two cups into that, and we walked off with that and the four rolls or croissants which they had brought.
On the train we found a seat along the end of a compartment and drank the coffee and ate the bread with a tin of sardines which Bob had brought.
At Aix les Bans, we saw a train marked Annecy, but a man took us under his wing, insisted that we didn't board it, took us under the subway to another platform, where with the inevitable 10 minutes wait, as it had become on this journey, a train arrived for St. Gervais via Annecy. I had asked a conductor on the first train at what time we'd arrive at Chamonix and he'd said 11.45. I hardly believed him, but now it began to seem possible.
This was a lovely little modern train, with a hooter which played several notes and time went very quickly until we were at St. Gervais, with a 10 minutes wait for the electric train to Chamonix, where we arrived on the dot of 11.45. One up for French Railways I thought.
It was grand to arrive at the Biolay, I had expected to have to doss down in a station or field. A party of English were still up. We made a brew, and then, assisted by the loan of a torch from Alan Blackshaw, I found two places. I felt I must be annoying the French girl next to me, but she rewarded me by putting her blanket over me when she got up in the morning. Poor Bob was too cold to sleep apparently.
Pete and Ken had arrived at about 3 o'clock on Monday afternoon. We had breakfast, made a shopping list, shopped in pairs, cooked a meal of liver, onion and tomatoes, and caught the 1.23 (I think) train to Argentière.
In the village, Ken bought some cigarettes, and then he and Bob had an ice, while Pete and I didn't find the best way of setting out for Lognon. When we reached the path up through the woods, Pete and Ken (inspired I think by 'trippers') started haring up, and I began to wonder whether they or I had had the weeks training in the Dauphine, but their pace didn't last. We'd all have reached the Lognon together, had I not stopped for a photograph. After beer or milk, we continued on our way. I felt that getting to the Argentière hut was like reaching the Requin, but from Chamonix, without the use of the Mer de Glace railway. We set off up the band of moraine, and then onto the glacier and up to the Rognon. We couldn't see a path up this, but it seemed the sort of place where a path wouldn't be obvious, so we cut straight up the horrible loose stuff, eventually managing to traverse over to the track, further to the left.
The way was straightforward, with an occasional step cut in the rock. This brought us above the icefall onto the level part of the glacier – a glacier surrounded by a magnificent circle of snow and rock mountains, I was pleased to think I was seeing it at close quarters, at long last.
Some haze came and went, giving most remarkable effects, but we were late and I couldn't be bothered to fiddle with a camera. The crossing of the glacier was very trying, it was practically level, but the snow was soft and we kept coming to water-logged areas, the way seemed to go on and on, with the shining silver hut getting no nearer.
Eventually we arrived, but did the wrong thing by getting out our rechaud in the ordinary room. Someone kindly pointed out to us the "self-cookers annexe". Even there we did wrong by putting the stove on the table – it was only to be used on the top of the grate.
After tea (which Pete doesn't like), we had a clear soup (of which neither Ken nor Pete approve). This was followed by Bob's masterpiece, rice and curry. The rice wasn't quite cooked and, as for the curry, Pete couldn't eat it, and when Ken found that it had sultanas and dried apricots in it!
I put it down to the fact that they were tired, having arrived at their first hut about 7.30 p.m. Both Bob and I enjoyed our meal!
We got up, possibly at 3.30 – the same time as the rest of our dormitory. We hadn't looked out the start of the way, but we gathered that Tout le Monde were for the Argentière, so we weren't worried.
We went out after most people, about the same time as a French speaking couple – they seemed very friendly. The girl was leading and I envied the spring in her step, but it didn't last very long and we soon left them behind. We put on crampons for the first, dry glacier, and kept them on until we were nearly down.
After the first, steeper part, the glacier levelled out and I watched with horror as the parties ahead mounted the very steep couloir at the end. Eventually we reached this part and Bob had the idea of keeping to the left to avoid the ice being sent down. This was a good idea, but it meant that we didn't use the steps which the others had made. Further up, we both thought that it might make better going by the rocks, but it was icier here, and impossible to get the axe in, so we moved over to the couloir again. Soon after this, the cannonade of falling ice started again. 'Tout le Monde' were coming down. Fortunately they traversed and passed us fairly soon, but the two parties behind must have been in the line of fire for some time. As soon as they were past, Bob and I continued up, and were rewarded with the most glorious view – right over to the Matterhorn etc. – with that early morning haze in the valleys (it was about 8 o'clock) and we belayed each other as we went nearer the edge to photograph the view and the cornice, and next we went on the few more yards to the summit of the mountain, where we could appreciate the view all round. We awaited Pete and Ken and gave them about 5 minutes on top, before suggesting that they started down, before the snow got in bad condition – much to their disgust!
We tried to wait until the last party got up, before knocking ice on them. I'm afraid I went down backwards on the steep part, until we got below the narrowing of the gully (I didn't mind when I was below the rocks, and only had snow below me). Actually the snow was in very good condition for crampons.
Half way along the more level part we were in the sunshine. The snow was softening rapidly, so Bob and I took off our crampons (the others preferred to keep theirs on). The way was very easy until right at the bottom, where Pete and Ken started to traverse across the dry glacier, the way we had come in the morning.
Bob also wanted to go this way, but it didn't seem to me to be the best way for a crampon-less rope – it was a case of what happens when an irresistible force is tied to an immovable object. I'm afraid that in this case the "immovable object" untied from the rope, much to the horror of the "irresistible force" who didn't think that was the way to go on, on a mountain.
I had some nice soft snow glissades, and was able to get back and put on the tea.
We were back at 10 o'clock, or some such ridiculous hour and were able to sit out in the sun and enjoy our second breakfast.
Next came the discussion of our next peak. I had suggested the Argentière for two reasons, firstly perhaps because I had never done it, and secondly because we heard that all the rock peaks were out of condition after the recent bad weather. Bob was tired of our frugal diet in the Dauphiné and had insisted on bringing masses of food to this hut, so I naturally expected to stay and eat it up and climb another peak. I also fancied a pass into Italy and a teleferique up to the Torino hut, but no-one else agreed; they insisted that we returned to Chamonix, and then went to the Requin hut.
At least we all agreed that we should stay another night in the hut, and go down the next morning as it was cheaper and far more comfortable than the Biolay.
Bob and I had a lovely afternoon, out with our cameras, photographing mostly the lovely yellow to chocolate coloured, gentian-like flowers, with an occasional mountain in the background.
We weren't interested in the call in the small hours, but we could hardly be indifferent to it. How people can spend half an hour simply putting on their boots and folding one blanket, I can't imagine, and why they should want to increase the hazards of the dormitory, but making an obstacle race over crampons is another mystery.
I think we got up at 6 o'clock or half past, and paid a porter who happened to be in the guardian's kitchen and set off.
The glacier was pretty well frozen, and in heaps better condition than when we arrived.
Soon after Lognon, they waited for me to go in front, down a short-cut. They started it, so I thought if they could take all the cuts, so could I, and I continued to take them.
I gathered they thought it had been a bit much!
At Argentière we had half an hour or so to wait for the train, so we made a shopping list and Pete and I bought most of the stores for the next hut, not to mention fruit etc. for the train ride.
Back in Chamonix, Bob cooked the potatoes, liver and tomatoes, and we ate in the brilliant sunshine, and drank our bottle of sweetish white wine. I was simply useless after that, just wanted to sleep. Fortunately the others were able to get things organised, and we got to the station with quarter of an hour to spare for the train (the 1.45); actually we had to wait until 2.30, for the first one was full. At Montenvers the others decided they were thirsty and Bob was appalled at the cost of his ham sandwich. The way up to the Requin hut went without too much difficulty; we kept to the (true) left at first, then followed the red marks on the stones, and at one point used the steps cut in the ice, and then came to the path up the loose stones; this seemed to go on for a long time, but we reached the hut in about 2½ hours, and were greeted by Pete Perkins, Joan and Niel.
We had quite an elaborate meal that night, for Bob had insisted on buying a heart at the butcher's. The guardian greeted me as an old friend, although it is a couple of years since I stayed there – he even shook hands with the others. I asked what time he'd call us in the morning, and he said 3.30 without asking what we were hoping to do!
Bob was for taking as few rucksacks as possible, but I insisted that we took one each – they are still convinced that I was wrong, but I have learned that I cannot rock-climb with 20 lb on my back and, had the number been cut down, it would have been all the more for me to carry, as it was no-one seemed to think it incongruous that the weakest armed member of the party should have the heaviest rucksack, for I had the spare rope in mine.
It was a glorious morning, and we were away with the dawn, and were soon on the Glacier du Requin, where we put on crampons and started across.
I had persuaded the others that we must leave our crampons at least at the foot of the couloir and, when half way across, I found that the snow was fairly soft, I suggested that we left them at once, which we did. After that some of the snow was a little patchy. I didn't feel that much enthusiasm went into the kicking of the steps, and I was expecting all the time to have my idea of leaving the crampons criticised, but the criticism never came.
Eventually we reached the gully, and the first difficulty, the bergschrund, which would have gone with a shoulder, but Bob preferred to chimney up to the left, between the rock and the snow and then traverse over onto the snow.
When Bob was half way up, the Scottish party appeared, Jimmy Marshal in the lead, Ian Hamilton in the middle and George Ritchie, with the party's solitary rucksack, in the rear. They wasted no time, George immediately bent down, and Jimmy climbed onto his shoulders, and was up the impasse in a moment. When Bob could see over, he had such a shock to see Jimmy above him! Ian also had a shoulder and then George tied onto two ropes, and in addition had a hand rail rope, and started up, all three straining at their particular rope, but the ropes had cut into the snow; George got about a foot up and then stuck and was rather glad of Pete's shoulder (as Pete was apt to quote, for George's opening remark to us was "Why do the English always prefer to climb rock when they could climb snow).
Next there was a distance further up the snow, and we came to another bergschrund; this time it was obvious that the wall to the right was climbed, there was a piton in it, Jimmy got a runner on this and was soon up, and Ian was trying to follow – he used the sling as a stirrup and then managed to get up. George had to take off the sling, but he also managed to get up. It was Bob's turn next; he used a sling, and was up and then it was my turn. Bob had left his pack below; I knew better than to try to take it, I was content to carry my own.
The sling was too high, I couldn't get my foot in it, so I changed it for mine, which was longer, and then put another on the bottom, which made things reasonably easy – I was thankful that the others were behind, so that I didn't have to remove the sling before using it!
Once up, there was a magnificent hole in the snow in which I could stand and also put the rucksacks, for next I had to haul up the three packs. By the time this was done, the other party were up the IV sup above, and Bob was looking at it. A piton on the lower part facilitated things, and then he was heaving me up to a little stance with piton belay. The next move looked horribly difficult, but when I tried it, I traversed to the left lower down and was soon up, and the part of the route most dreaded was over.
The next hazard was the stones, sent down with many apologies by the party ahead. The chimney was graded as IV, but was very easy. I pulled up all four 'sacks after this pitch, for the chimney was a little narrow. The third overhang was simpler, and then easy rocks led to the brèche, where we sat down for second breakfast, after admiring the view – we could at last see the Grépon etc. and also there appeared to be a sea of cloud over Chamonix.
This had taken about 4 hours I think; we knew we were miles behind schedule, but we had all day before us and enjoyed our rest.
I'm afraid for the rest I didn't really see eye to eye with Bob. He was simply thrilled with all the magnificent rock in front of him and was on the lookout for an "interesting" route; I'm afraid that once I am on a route, I consider a good mountaineer, one who can find the easiest way up, and I have no patience with 'bouldering' on the way up. I considered the route rather an unsatisfactory one, being so indefinite. Each difficulty on the middle part I felt could have been avoided, but it was quite fun. The view and day were superb, and I have at least one unforgettable memory. I was climbing up, not really noticing what I was passing, when I got the scent of honeysuckle – so I thought. Actually my nose had passed close to a clump of Moss Campion. Although I had taken several photographs of the flower previously this holiday, I hadn't before realised it was scented.
I was wrong about the route. All the time I was looking for a couloir in which we were to abseil, I expected it to be on our left. Later I decided it must have been out of sight on the right. Before this, there had been some rather nice climbing in the region of the gendarmes – vertical cracks, as the book said, and a very nice little traverse. Parts of this were pitonned, but one piton worried rather than reassured me. It had a loop of new cord through it, and I thought it must have been left by another party who had got so far up this way and then decided to retreat. Fortunately Bob was able to make it 'go'.
Next we were very surprised to see the Scottish party; they had simply left us standing when they passed us at the bottom, and I had thought I'd seen them some time before get back to the hut, but they had met great difficulties on the diedre, apparently.
They said they hoped that we had plenty of mousqueton, and then disappeared. It was getting pretty late by this time and Bob for once agreed to look for an easier alternative, and traversed to the left. Some pleasant cracks, chimneys and ledges brought us to the foot of a more serious looking pitch, a wall, with a crack at the side, a lay-back type of move, although not a pure lay-back. Bob left his pack and was soon up. I tried to follow carrying both, but I couldn't get off the ground. I quickly dropped Bob's pack and made the move up to the first foothold, and then tried the next move. I could get no real help from my feet on the slab, and halfway up I could see no future in it, so I asked Bob to let me down before I fell off. He was much more helpful than that, he pulled on the rope and tightened it so that it took my weight for a few moments, allowing me to recover, and then I was able to go on.
At the top I sat down and rested while poor Bob hauled up the three packs – the others were most critical, saying that they had no trouble getting their vibrams to stick on, but it didn't seem to dawn on them that I was the only one to climb it with a pack.
After this, the way got really interesting. There were some cracks which would have been really difficult without the occasional piton (and did Mummery really pioneer this part in his clinkers?). Bob broke the pitch half way up. I felt terribly exposed on the stance, with the little piton as my only belay, but Bob was soon up to the brèche and marvelling at the crest which constituted the next pitch. I found this quite difficult – again a piton seemed practically essential. After this, the difficulty was over, we joined the ordinary route, and made our way up the snow between the huge blocks, and sat down just below the summit; it was 4 p.m. and I decided not to bother to get on top of the actual summit block and, to my surprise, the others were of the same mind.
We had about an hour's rest. We ate the four apricots I had been saving for this moment. I had brought them up unsquashed in a mug, and we sat on saying that if we waited a little longer the glacier would be in shade and in better condition by the time I got to it. Eventually we stirred ourselves and Pete and Ken went down with the spare rope and fixed the first rappel; Pete went down and untied, for he was below the piton, and had no belay and didn't want he and Ken to be tied together with no belay. I paid out Ken's rope, while Bob belayed me, and then I went down. Now how anyone could enjoy that rappel! – I thought the 150 ft one on the Meije was interminable, because it was easy and monotonous, well this 18 m one seemed even longer, because it was so awkward, but eventually I was down, belaying on the piton and then joining the others on the stance lower down, glad that there wasn't even more ice to restrict it still further, and then Bob came down; and at first stayed at the piton, where he pulled down the rope and fixed it on the piton. When the other two had gone, Bob came down and joined me. I think he thought I was rather too fussy, insisting that he kept a belay on the piton.
The second half was as awkward as the first, and then I was down and watching Pete and Ken move off on the hand traverse, before Bob arrived. I thought they'd be half way down before we had the rope coiled, but we found them basking in the evening sun just around the corner.
I found the descent rather tedious. I think this had a lot to do with the fact that my axe was in the uphill position in my pack. Halfway down we came to a little snow arête, but mostly the way consisted of rock or stones, so different from the thigh deep snow of 1958, the last time I descended it!
At the bottom, there was some loose stuff, and then we were on the snow. The first part hadn't hardened, and was a little treacherous; I rather held up proceedings by going down backwards – after that it was straightforward. What had looked like a dicey knife edge from up top proved to have bucket steps, the only snag of the glacier was near the bottom – two icy patches where I disgusted Bob by going down on my pick. He cut himself some steps and followed down them. I recognised the two little rock pitches we used to crampon up in 1948, and then I was down on the Requin Glacier, and sending Bob on to put on the tea, while I traversed over to pick up the crampons. Once I had the crampons I was soon down and back to the hut, just as the light was going. The others had reconstituted some milk, which went down very well. Pete then suggested that the water Bob was heating up should be used for more milk instead of tea and we agreed. Pete then went to bed while we had soup, but somehow the day wasn't complete for the three of us, we found that we couldn't do without tea, and I put on a brew. It was after 9 o'clock, but the guardian is a good friend at times, and we eventually went to bed after our cup of tea.
Bob's holiday had finished and we were all for Chamonix that day, to see him off. We got up, perhaps at 7 o'clock, and had a leisurely breakfast, and then set off for Montenvers; I surprised myself by swigging lemonade on the way down. We had bought single tickets and walked all the way down. We hoped to get milk at the halfway house, but there wasn't any, so Pete and I went on down, leaving the others to enjoy, or otherwise, their beer. I felt I'd had quite a good day by the time I reached the Biolay, so I was very pleased when Pete suggested that he'd get out his bike to take us to the Cremerie Mont Blanc at Les Pelerins.
I sat at a table and ordered a meal for four, only hoping that the others wouldn't get lost on the way. It was the usual sort of meal, a delicious hors d'oeuvres, about 10 different things, sardines, sausage, ham etc. and then the main course and fruit. I felt it was wasted on my companions, "I don't like this mucked about stuff" was the verdict of one of them on the first rate food. We had a bottle of wine with it, and I was very content by the time I had finished, when Pete ferried us back to Chamonix.
Bob wanted to spend the afternoon looking round the shops, and the souvenir shops in particular. I stuck it as long as I could, and then found myself near the church by a wall and I stretched out on the wall – I had previously been refused permission to go to the woods and sleep it off there – but I wasn't allowed to stay in peace, they kept saying that everyone was looking at them. Pete then came back with me to the Biolay where I found a camp bed until the cool of evening, when we duly saw Bob off on the train.
There had been a storm in the night and the weather was still unsettled all day; Pete and Ken had decided to go up to the Albert 1ere for the Chardonnet; I said I wouldn't go with them, as I had done it; I would rather contact André and do a different climb. I think I was partly influenced by the weather, for both times I have been to that hut I have been weather bound, and it looked like happening again with the west wind.
I didn't seem a great deal of use in helping the others to get off. Next I went to the guides bureau, but they said André was at Montenvers, was doing a course the next day and would then be down to Chamonix, so I had to reconcile myself to losing a day. Later that evening it started to clear and the wind veered towards the east. I had mad ideas of starting then and there for the Albert 1ere, but laziness won, and I had an early night at the Biolay.
I had my breakfast, shopped, and got to the station at 9 o'clock, only to find that the next train up the valley was at 10.30, so I started walking towards Les Praz.
I hadn't the map of this area, so I rather went round in circles, but took a photo of the new church, and eventually caught the train, which took me to the station above Mont Roc, which was called Mont Buet (shades of 1939?). I wanted to get up on the Aiguille Rouge side, to take photographs, and I thought that by taking the train to a higher station it would be easier to traverse along. How wrong I was! I left the station, passed some picturesque huts, and took a path up through the woods, hoping that it was the one marked on the map, it zigzagged up and up, getting more and more overgrown, and finally turned to the right. By now I felt that I was the first person along it for years, it was going in quite the wrong direction; it was a hot day and I turned back. I came down, passing no path looking like the one I was after, so I started along the road, stopping at the Col des Montets to console myself with milk. The Chardonnet looked superb, but I consoled myself for only having a valley view by thinking that I'd never have made the summit in my present lazy state, although it is possible that I'd have had more energy in the coolness of the perpetual snows.
Soon I sat down and ate my lunch and photographed a grass of Parnassus, and then continued on taking another photo with some glorious yellow stonecrop in the foreground, and eventually reached Argentière with half an hour to spare for the train. While I was wondering where I could get another drink of milk, I passed a dairy, and bought half a litre, for I had my bottle with me.
He was all alone, and somehow he seemed down in the dumps. I don't know why I got this impression. I asked him if he were free, for I wanted to do a climb, and what did he suggest. He only had two new suggestions, the Guitter arête on the Pelerins and the Chamonix Ridge on the Blaitière. I wasn't at all keen on either of these, for two reasons. Firstly I didn't feel either were worth paying a guide for and secondly I knew that some of the difficulties were avoidable on both of them, so I said I wasn't interested, what else could he suggest. I think the Mayer Dibona and the Fou were the only alternatives, so he asked me what I had in mind. I had nothing, but I had to say something, so I suggested the Ryan-Lochmatter on the Plan. He shook his head at this and said that it was long and hard and we seemed to have reached a deadlock. He took me in and showed me the rope I had sold him three years ago – it was in a very sorry state!
Eventually we half agreed on the Plan, but decided to discuss it at 10 o'clock the next morning. André said we must take 1 sac between us, two pairs of crampons and 1 axe, and asked me to take my rope. Thinking that the sac would be for me to carry I mentioned the fact that mine were heavy crampons, and he told me to take them along and he'd change them, and so it was left and I went back to the Biolay slightly depressed.
We decided to go out for a meal and went round looking at menus. The 'Gourmets' looked reasonable and interesting, but it was too French for Pete and Ken, and, as I'd chosen the place for the last meal, I decided that they should choose this one and I led them on to the awful Steak and Chips place. This suited them and we went in, although it was nearly as much for one course as for the whole meal at the other place.
We ordered the food and wine, and then I remembered that I had left all my money and reserves of cash in an open rucksack at the Biolay, and I rushed back to collect it. Back at the restaurant I found that the others had practically finished. I was surprised at the extent of my appetite – the others tried to tell me afterwards that they had been proper gentlemen and had left me more than my share!
We decided to go elsewhere for some final delicacy and were disappointed to find the Patisserie des Alpes closed, and we went to the place with the girls' band. I asked for peach melba (remembering Zermatt's Alpina), but they had none. I had the ice they recommended, but it was very watery. We listened while the band played several pieces and felt very superior to the passers by who stopped and stood and listened, without even a table to sit at. We eventually paid our bill and returned to the Biolay.
I was on the dot of time at the bureau. André was 5 minutes late, but he was dressed quite smartly and was his old cheerful self. The Plan seemed settled; it seemed to me that he was saying a little proudly "voie ryan" to the other guides who showed an interest in his proposed course.
He produced a gloriously light pair of Italian crampons which just fitted my boots and I handed in mine. Still thinking that I should have to carry the solitary sac I suggested that we should take mine in place of his heavier one, although I knew it would suffer on the rocks.
There was only food to discuss. André said I must take "bifstec" and I said I couldn't cook it. I'd take it if he'd cook it. He said that I'd have to cook it. He also demanded biscuits and chocolate to eat on the "course". We agreed to meet at the station at 1.30, for they were telling André in the bureau that he must get to the hut in good time so that he could look at the bergschrund.
I shopped hurriedly, had a meal with Pete and Ken, and arrived at the station before time, to find André waiting. He left me to get the tickets while he used his influence to get on the station and dump the two rucksacks he was carrying.
As before I missed the 1.45, but was in plenty of time for the 2.30. At Montenvers, André took the rope out of my pack and gave it to me to carry, and then put all his own junk in mine – a piton hammer, pegs, crabs, an etrier, lantern etc. He had brought up half a dozen eggs for Moulenières. I don't know why, some were broken, and I rather gather from the receptionist's reaction that she wasn't at all surprised, knowing André. Pete, Joan and Niel were outside. I said "Late" to them, and then we set off.
I got the impression that André didn't very often come this way! We kept to the edge of the glacier, and then up the rough part and finally the lovely little path among the flowers. There was no stopping this day for photographs, but for two reasons, firstly that André wouldn't understand and, more important, this side was in the shade.
We went up and up, there was a constant distance between André and me. Although he had the sac, I felt that he'd like to go much faster, but I have passed the stage when I'll keep up at all costs, and went at my fastest pleasant pace. We passed two people on their way down, and then crossed some snow, and so to the hut in 1¾ hours. I was sorry not to have been in front, for only André got a good look at the fauna – first a bird flew out from under his feet – that got a stone thrown after it. Next time André stopped it was to tell me he'd seen a marmot. That seemed to please him and got no stone.
In the hut I put on the rechaud (I'd taken the spirit stove) and put on water for tea. André wasn't content with this. He lit the fire, there was some wood chopped up, but not enough for my dear guide, he sawed a chunk of wood off, what I am sure was meant to be an important post of the hut and cut it up and soon had a good fire, and then when he found the coal he put masses of that on. How different from the way George had eked out the frugal wood supply in the Promontoire hut.
There were no cups, so we drank the tea with difficulty from soup plates - André didn't think much of it, despite the lemon I offered him. Next I put on water for the soup and then, to my utter amazement, André said he was going out to look at the bergschrund. It was 5 o'clock and he said he'd be back at 6.
At 5.30 he was back, "Why wasn't the soup ready?" he demanded – no he hadn't gone to the bergschrund, it was too far, he'd gone as far as we could see from the hut. He had also brought back water, instead of a drop in the bottom of the can, he had filled it right up, much more than we'd need, and he'd carried it up himself. Eventually the soup was ready; André had insisted on putting in much more water, and then he wouldn't have his share! Then I produced the "bifstec" which André still refused to cook, but he watched me rather carefully to see that I didn't spoil it. I suggested that we used some of the bottle of olive oil which we found in the hut, but André said we were to use butter. I had foreseen this eventuality and had put a little margarine in one end of the packet of butter, and I put this in the frying pan. Next I cut up the onion and was about to cut up the tomato I had brought, but André couldn't see good food wasted like this and he took over, he cooked the onion in the fat, and then put it to one side in the frypan, stoked the fire, got the fat really hot, and then put in the meat. The steaks were done in no time and done beautifully too; André knew he had made a good job of it, and was justly proud of it, and took it off the fire and stood shaking it. Alas, the fry-pan was loose in the handle, and the pan turned upside down and the contents fell on the floor! It didn't really matter, we picked up the steak and ate it and it was as good as it had looked. We lost the onion, but it must have flavoured the meat. We finished with coffee, and then a party of three Frenchmen arrived. André spoke to them quite a bit, but I never got into conversation with them. It was a lovely evening, we went outside until the light had gone, and then I went to bed about 8.30.
André had said that we'd get up at 2.30, so I was most put out when the alarm went at 2.15; however, I got up and went down and lit the stove and made coffee to please André.
At 3 o'clock we started out; I was using the little lantern I had bought at La Bérade for the first time. I was glad I hadn't to rely on André's, for again he kept just far enough in front to make sure that I went at my fastest and, of course, not too far so that I lost hope of catching up and gave up. Eventually we stopped to rope up and put on crampons, although the snow wasn't properly frozen. André amazed me by helping me with my fastenings. We went on and on, André following faint tracks in the snow. There were a few difficulties, and then in the deceptive light before dawn, André got up a steeper part and then stopped – the way didn't 'go', so he told me to turn round and go down. I started to go down backwards, for the snow was hard and steep, the light deceptive, and I had no axe, but André didn't allow this. He was furious, I know, because he had taken the wrong track, and the other party had just caught us up and could see. André went along to the right, brought me up to stand on an ice arête and started to cut a step to stand on the other side. Every time he tried to enlarge the step, the part he had meant to stand on split away, and he started to swear. He asked the leader of the party behind to take his rope, as I was so badly placed to belay him (also I hadn't an axe).
Eventually, the steps were cut, also an odd handhold or so, and he was up, looking round the corner and saying that the route was O.K. He came down to bring me up the ice. I found the steps very far apart (the first one had to be) and, as I keep saying, I hadn't an axe, but I was getting up slow but sure, getting the nerve to cross and then we reached rock at what was obviously the breakfast place – for previous parties had left signs of food about the place. We sat down just for a moment and took off our crampons; I had put the lemonade bottle in an outside pocket, and couldn't get it out, so we had to tip up the whole sac to get a drink.
We each had a drink, and then went on. There was no mention of breakfast. I was quite glad for I wasn't hungry and was pleased to think we might make up a little of the time I thought we had lost. This first part was sheer delight, in the sunshine, on those friendly yellow rocks, which made easy angled slabs. All too soon, André left the rocks, preferring snow in the shade, and this snow was quite icy, certainly a lot harder than the stuff on which we had worn crampons. André didn't even get out his axe, but we moved one at a time, and there were rocks round which the rope could be put. The steps André kicked were very small, in fact I had difficulty in noticing them at times, but I kept moving, for I had been shown the penalty of hesitating on snow!
With less snow I think the couloir might be a rotten loose place, and I should hate to be up it late in the day, but early in the morning it would have been fine with an axe. We went up for quite a number of rope lengths, but eventually came to the ridge, between a huge yellow block and a pile of snow, and then the rock work began. The first thing was a lay-back crack, only short it is true, but it overhung – I sat down and watched him up it, he didn't take a moment and then I had to tie on the sac, the first twice I did this I heaved it above my head to help André, but I didn't bother after that; I began to realise that he could lead the pitches, do all the hauling and still have far more in hand than I had. In a moment André had the sack up and it was my turn to climb and I had nowhere near recovered from my previous exertions. I was still feeling very weak in the arms, but there was nothing for it, I thought I'd better start to (??PAGE(S) MISSING – 88-90 m/s??)
considered extremely delicate, firstly the dos d'âne where André told me what he thought of me for using a knee, and then the crack.
André actually got me to belay him for the latter – I never bothered at other times, in fact I sometimes let go the rope and stood back and took photographs. The view which thrilled me was that over the East Ridge of the Pain de Sucre, with the light coming over the glorious snow flutings.
On the second delicate move, André had climbed the crack and then come down the other side, while I had to use the rope and go straight across. Between the pitches I remember were numerous chimneys which didn't make much impression, but then we came to the worst of all, the chimney with the jammed blocks. André started facing right, got into the chimney, but then had to come out and face left. I watched amused, camera ready as he went in and came out, and then I had to tie on the sac, and lastly try the pitch myself.
I thought I would improve on André's method and face left. I don't know whether this was my great mistake – I got up 2 or 3 ft with difficulty and then stuck. I could see no way up. André told me to pull on the fluting, but the vertical edge didn't seem to do me any good, and then I tried to pull on the rope, but that didn't help, so next André tried to pull me, but soon gave that up as too much like hard work. The trouble was that my right thigh was in a sort of vertical vice, preventing upward progress, and there was nowhere for my feet. I wanted to go down and try facing the other way, but I daren't suggest it to André – it was alright for him, he'd been slim enough to get in the crack, and now was getting madder and madder and eventually informed me that I'd wasted a quarter of an hour on that pitch. I suppose I made height inch by inch, until I could reach the horizontal part on the fluting; it wasn't easy after that, not until I got my thigh free.
I expect it was after this that André made one little speech I remember. he shook his head sadly and said that I had suggested the climb, he hadn't. He'd told me it was hard, he hadn't wanted to come. He couldn't understand a woman wanting to do it, very few would want to do it, and so on. I could see the bivouac being necessary after all, if I were to waste quarter of an hour on many pitches.
Next came a longer chimney, and I had to unrope to send up the sac. When I came to tie on again, André suggested that I tied onto one rope, and used the other as a handhold. I tied onto one rope, but I certainly didn't need to pull on the other, for it was a delightful chimney of the back and foot variety, reminded me of the one at the top of the Roc, but was less sensational and this pitch is a IV sup, while the brute on which I wasted the ¼ hour is only a IV. André said that this pitch got its grading because of the finish, but this was as easy as the chimney.
To my utter amazement this brought us into view of the normal route, which the last guided party was just leaving; it wasn't yet 10 o'clock in the morning, no bivouac after all! André had a chat with the guide and was a different person after that; we made our way to the normal route and then sat down for second breakfast, again it was necessary to lift up the whole rucksack to get a drink; it was the first time I had lifted it for some time, and I was appalled at the weight and I found myself saying to André, "You not only have to carry this, but you also have to haul it up, and then you have to haul me up". I wasn't expecting a reply, but he immediately contradicted me and said that he hadn't pulled me. We had a little to eat and finished the lemonade. I was surprised to find that the bottle of lemonade went much further when I shared it with André than when I share it with an amateur.
Next, we sauntered up to the top, took photographs; André had a cigarette, and I tried to compare it with 1948 – we didn't have the broken spectre this time, we were later in the day, it was much warmer too, but I think really the view was more interesting, for I knew so many more of the mountains. And so down to the sac and then onto the snow where we put on crampons – the snow was soft, and yet last year he hadn't let us wear them on ice. I used my last exposure on the Midi, and then we set off down, soon passing the last guided party.
I don't know what anyone watching would have thought of my erratic progress. André told me not to use the old tracks, but to go down to the side. On the whole I did this, but occasionally I preferred the tracks, for instance over a snow bridge, or in some places when the snow balled very badly on my crampons. André sometimes took short cuts and on these occasions I ran as fast as I could to keep in front of him, for I had the awful fear that if he could get in front he'd try to pull me along. The trouble was that once I'd got really ahead I'd have to stop to get my breath back - André couldn't understand this.
I wish Bob could have seen the way I ran down compared with the cautious way I had gone down with a tired party, after the Mayer Dibona. The icy parts of course were no trouble in crampons.
Near the bottom, André gave me his axe, and when we got on the Requin Glacier, I unroped and said I'd prefer to go down at my own speed, but this part was lovely for glissading (we'd de cramponned by now) and I wasn't much behind André.
We arrived at 12 o'clock and André had a lovely time in the hut for the guides had just brought the 'tourists' (snob that I am) back from the Géant and in reply to their 'Col du Géant' André would say Voie Ryan, and if his client looked as she felt, she wouldn't have appeared the slightest bit tired. I had a chat with the guardian and let André order food (after last year I'd made a resolution to buy poor André food in the future).
We had soup, and then potatoes each and I said I didn't want 'bifstec', but André could have it. When the solitary piece came, André insisted on cutting it in half, but I didn't really want my share. In fact I couldn't finish my potatoes, but they weren't wasted.
We also had a bottle of red wine and many jokes about the way we'd roll down the Mer de Glace after it. André must have been ravenous, for he found a bit of bread and crust of cheese on the table and ate that. I couldn't help but think of the rest of my bread which he'd thrown away on the summit of the Plan, saying that he'd told me we had too much bread.
Eventually I paid, the rucksack was repacked, I took the rope and André the sac and we set off down. I started to take the upper track which we had used last time, but not so André, he took the lower one and then cut straight down; I'm sure the other way was quicker. It was very pleasant staggering down the glacier, and there was the usual distance between André and me. I couldn't help but compare this with the time I had come down the day after the Mayer Dibona. I was so much less tired this time!
Once off the glacier, I got left behind, waiting for trippers to pass, but met André again at Montenvers at 2.30 or so (and I had once been impressed with the tale of the guide who had reached the Requin hut by 2 o'clock).
André took out his belongings from the sac; I promised to take his guidebook into the bureau and I said I'd leave the money there and André kept my rope as part payment, it was his idea. I then set off for Chamonix without having a drink – this was because I was too mean to buy one also for André. I paid for my meanness, for it seemed a long way down to Chamonix; I was so thankful to get to the halfway house, although the best I could get there was lemonade.
Back at the Biolay at about 4 o'clock I rather entered in fear and trembling for it simply isn't done to climb guided from there, but apparently those who disapproved remained quiet.
It was some time before people realised that it was only that morning I had done the climb (I had great difficulty in realising it myself). There was Paul whose name I had seen in the Requin hut, who had got up the climb in time to see the sun set, but apparently it was the sunset of a lifetime.
Joe was very nice about it, but he seemed a little depressed after his bivouac on the west face of the Blaitière.
I brewed pan after pan of tea for myself, and then came down to earth myself. I had been thinking that I had done my last climb of the holiday, so I might as well leave very soon and have a day or so in Brighton before going on to Nottingham. The trouble was that the train strike was still on. There had been no trains from the station all the week. Somehow it hadn't seemed to affect me and now for the first time I realised the inconvenience of the strike. Pete and Ken had gone up to the tour Rouge, but that afternoon would be able to leave on their motorbike and I should be left at Chamonix kicking my heels, with no-one to climb with.
Almost as soon as this had sunk in, I was in the wash place, when I met Geoff Sutton and he asked me if I were looking for someone with whom to climb – fortunately I was able to adjust my ideas and I said yes, but he gave me a shock when his two suggestions for a climb were the Brenva, or the North Face of the Drus. I quickly disillusioned him about my abilities – because I could lead Narrow Slab, 500 ft of delicate climbing, it certainly didn't following that I could follow up 3,000 ft of incredibly strenuous climbing. It was then my turn to suggest something and I found myself quoting André pets – the North Ridge of the Blaitière or the Grûtter on the Pelerins. Now these appealed to me because their difficulties were avoidable. Geoff naturally wasn't keen on the Blaitière for he had been with Joe and the Dons, when they had had to retreat, and the Grûtter seemed rather an artificial route, so it was rather fortunate that Geoff thought of the West Face of the Albert. This had never occurred to me, for don't I get stuck on V's, let alone VI's, and don't I disapprove of artificial climbing? However, I didn't mind as the suggestion had been Geoff's trying to follow up, and, as Geoff said, we wouldn't bivouac on it. We could always rappel down if we looked like getting stuck and, when I saw his collection of etrier, I thought that if he could lead it, I could always get up it by putting these together, if all else failed.
I had a solitary meal and was early to bed.
I drifted about Chamonix all the morning, then in the afternoon did a little shopping for the next expedition, and Geoff and I caught the 5.10 train to Montenvers. When we arrived who should be waiting for us but Grace and Ray; they had seen me in the train, and had braved the crowds to come and speak. They had walked from Zermatt and looked very fit and Grace was very gay with patches sown on her pants with red and blue thread. They had been so away from the world, that they didn't know that there was a railway strike on in France!
We walked together to Montenvers, where who should I meet but André; as far as I could make out, he had done the Blaitière that day, and was going to do it again the next. We filled our containers with water, and set out for the little hut, which I had last used in 1951 – it was so neat and tidy inside; this is one unguarded hut which is well looked after. We had soup, but it was a French one of chicken and rice and the rice wasn't cooked. Next, it was steak and chips, but Geoff's and my combined efforts weren't up to André's, or possibly my primus wasn't as suitable as André's great fire.
There was a thunderstorm and we put our pans to catch the drips from the roof, to supplement our meagre water supply, but we only got half a pan in this way.
A couple of Frenchmen arrived fairly late, they were for the Grépon and set the alarm for 2 o'clock.
We all went to bed in good time, but I didn't go to sleep at once. I was getting too much amusement from the Frenchmen. It seemed to me that the one who couldn't sleep was very envious of the one who could, for as soon as the latter started to snore, his friend woke him up and this happened quite half a dozen times.
The Frenchmen got up at 2 a.m. and reset the alarm for us for 5 o'clock and we slept on until that civilised hour – what a privilege to get up in the light, from an alpine hut.
Geoff had what seemed to me a revolutionary idea about breakfasts in an alpine hut – he'd insisted on bacon and egg. Had it been any earlier I don't think I'd have fancied it.
We set out about 6 o'clock up the old familiar track, but this time it wasn't too much of a grind, for we went no further than the band of moraine and then Geoff cut off up towards the face of the Albert.
I had been most relieved when he had suggested traversing in from the right, and so avoiding the bottom two grade V's, for V's seem to me something to be avoided at all costs.
We roped up on 2 x 120 ft ropes, and then started to climb. I found the beginnings of both the traversing pitches difficult, and these were aggravated by the fact that our voices didn't carry round corners. Geoff's technique was rather different from André's, whereas the latter climbed on 75 ft of rope, and stopped at the top of each little difficulty, Geoff ran out the whole 120 ft as often as he could. Apart from this, there was something familiar in the way I was being taken up the climb; Geoff had the sac, until he needed all the stuff out of it, and then I had only the practically empty sac to carry; I didn't once have to worry about the route finding, Geoff seemed very confident about the way. Had I not had my preconceived ideas about V's and A2, I think, as on the Plan, I'd have been got up the climb with no real effort on my part (and I don't mean that I'd have been pulled up). Half way up I happened to mention something about guideless climbing and Geoff informed that he was a British guide. I might have guessed, for very few amateurs realise that leading constitutes getting their second up the climb, besides going up themselves without a rope above them.
Another similarity between André and Geoff was that both seemed to think that second breakfast shouldn't be taken before the top of the climb!
After the traverse, the climbing didn't make much impression on me (again I hadn't to help look out for the route) until the A2, but I suppose it had its awkward moves, for I remember horrifying Geoff at one point by using a knee.
I can't pretend I felt any pleasure at the sight of the first A2, it was just something to be got over and how I loathed it when it came to my turn, but before that there was the complicated business of paying out Geoff's ropes – they were twisted in the first two pegs – I didn't see what was happening in time to tell him, and it meant that I had to slacken off one, completely before I could tighten the other, and he found the friction most annoying on a delicate move higher up. Geoff seemed to run out most of the rope, and then I had to start. It was a real overhang, and, swinging about on the little etriers I got no thrill from the exposed position. Possibly that is something which comes with experience and familiarity. At times I had trouble in unclipping the rope from the pegs and then, as I moved up, I began to wonder how I should ever unclip the etriers, but I found a very easy way, I simply clipped another etrier onto the one ahead, and stood in that, for Geoff had led with 4, leaving me with 2, and so I arrived at the top of the A2, dripping with etrier, and etrier hanging from etrier. As Geoff said the VI at the top of this pitch was so be-pitoned that it was now an A1, and eventually I was nearly up to Geoff. He had said that he wouldn't use the little stance, would go up to the better one. I must say I noticed no possible stance lower down, and on this one Geoff thought it better that I should stay about 6 ft lower down, while he tied me onto his belay. I forget whether this was the place, but at one stance, I was very pleased to see Geoff put one of my ropes on the piton, and the other round a rock, which, although it felt absolutely firm, wasn't really a part of the mountain – few people take belays seriously enough for my liking.
The next move after this was particularly difficult. I was still a little too overawed at the A2 pitch to tackle this with enthusiasm and enjoyment; I was an age on it, it seemed to me that if I moved up and didn't find a higher hold I should just come off, but, as is usually the case, once I made the move I found it went alright, and then I was able to traverse out to the left and avoid the hand jamming higher up the crack. I can't remember the details of the next few pitches, but I do know that my ideas were changing, and that I was quite glad to get to the next A2 pitch. "Why doesn't someone put a peg in here so that I can hang an etrier on it and make things easy". I had begun to resent rock difficulties, instead of delighting in them, for this route is not artificial in the sense that it is the easiest way up the face! I got up this A2 more easily than the last (it wasn't an overhang). I got off the last etrier, recovered it, was standing on rock, and knew I had to traverse left. There was a right hand hold, but nothing for the left, so I shouted up to Geoff to know what to do; I got no reply, but he seemed to know where I was, for he tightened the rope (which hadn't been slack at all!) and, realising that I was only getting tired, I moved round in balance. Apparently Geoff had just been able to reach a left handhold.
I think it was at the top of this pitch that I found Geoff on a large platform. It was very pleasant. Everything was loose on it, and it was sloping, but everything is comparative, and this was very spacious, so I went on strike and found a sweet in my rucksack and, much to Geoff's disgust I'm sure, insisted on peeling an orange, for my throat had been very dry for a long time (this was worse than with André for I did have the occasional swig of lemonade on the Plan).
Before I'd had time to repack the sac, Geoff was off again, and this time was up on very loose rock. They were III's and Geoff considered this the hardest part of the climb. I looked over the right and saw the smooth yellow rock and overhanging cracks and realised that I had expected to be climbing that sort of thing the whole time, and thought how thankful I was to be on the broken stuff. Geoff had led to this point without looking at the guide, apparently he had had two previous attempts on the route. On the first, his leader had come off on the first A2, so they had retreated, and on the second he had got up the A2, but had then dropped his piton hammer, which had narrowly missed his second, so again they had turned back, but the result was that he led me without hesitating, only consulting the book for the top part.
After the loose part was the V delicate, the traverse which Geoff considered the easiest part of the climb, and then the 2 m descent. I had rather a shock on this part, when I got a touch of cramp in my hand. I don't know why, unless it was that paying out the rope on A2s was more strenuous for the hands, than I had realised; also I was slow on all the pitches, which is far more tiring than moving rapidly.
I was very reluctant to make the descent, for the footholds were very meagre, and it was a great strain on the hands. I went down 1 m and the realised that I could traverse from there if I used the rope as a hold, and I couldn't resist doing this; I tried to tell Geoff that that was from my training with André on the Plan, but he looked unconvinced!
The next pitch was about 10 ft – the first one on the climb less than 100 ft, I should imagine, and then we were confronted with the last A2. Geoff put on and took off several etrier before he made the traverse, and then was soon up.
When I came to follow I thought at first that he had taken off one too many etrier, so I put on another to the left, only to realise that it did me no good, that I'd got to make the long step to the right. Before I made this, I got a shock when I suspected that my hand would soon be letting go (I don't know what else I could expect, the time I was on the pitch), but on the second etrier, I could stand without a strain on my hands, and it wasn't so bad. I've put all this in to explain why I didn't recover that first etrier. I couldn't reach the first one when I was standing on the second, so I shouted up to Geoff who said I'd have to leave it, and I did so most thankfully, for I was wondering if I'd ever make the rest of the climb. On looking back I can see at least two ways in which I could have recovered it. I could have put a couple of etrier on a higher peg, and climbed down again, or I could have looped a sling over the peg and stood in it while getting of the etrier, but it's easy to be wise after the vent. Further up I'm afraid I was looping etrier to etrier just to make things easier and without the excuse that I had to remove a lower one. How I had got used to this artificial climbing! On the first A2 I had thought how could Geoff possibly have trusted those little pegs to have led up on them and I touched them almost in fear and trembling, despite the fact that they were firm and the cracks went the right way; now, only a couple of artificial pitches later, I was using the pegs with the greatest confidence, and wasn't worried that one was loose and that the cracks were sloping the wrong way. Another etrier in the crack in the corner, and I had my hands over the top. I realised that I'd never be able to recover the etrier from below, but I hoped I'd be able to do so once I was up. Then I began to panic and suspect that I'd never get up and we were so near the top.
I felt over and eventually reached a flake, only to be told they were loose, but I knew I couldn't hang on any longer. I pulled on a flake and swam over the mantelshelf and, when I'd slightly recovered, I tried to get the etrier. I tried with my left hand, and then with my right, there were two crabs in the bag and I couldn't recover either, although I could touch them, and Geoff had to get them.
Geoff said that he didn't like to belay and climb on the same peg, so he put in another and said he'd leave me the hammer so that I could recover it afterwards. Geoff was soon up the last little bit, with the etrier and "rétablissement violent" and said the climb had taken about 6½ hours – I think I was another half hour on the last pitch. I kept hitting the peg and trying anything else I could think of, but, although it moved, it didn't loosen and eventually I gave that up. I took off the etrier and put everything away in the sac and tried the easier alternative to the last pitch. It was a grade IV and wasn't difficult, but it was a lay-back sort of move and I couldn't get my hands any higher in the weak state they were in by this time, so I retreated, and, so addicted had I become to this artificial climbing, that I thought I'd prefer Geoff's way. At length I got an etrier sorted out from the muddle in the sac, but found it was only a short one, so I put it back and got out a longer one, put it on the peg and was soon up that, only to be confronted by a mantelshelf, which I surmounted the same way as the last, arriving most ignominiously at the top of the Pt. Albert.
When I felt down for the etrier I found it 6 inches beyond my reach, so I left it to Geoff.
I had carried my camera up the climb, but this was my first opportunity to use it, and the weather was rapidly closing down, so Geoff thought we'd better get off before the storm came. I said that last time we'd rappelled down, but Geoff seemed against it; I was sorry for I wanted to photograph a rappel; however, once we started we found the rock very easy and after two pitches we unroped for the horrid couloir – we started down parallel, but when we both wanted to go down the same line, Geoff waited until I was clear of the line of fire. Once on the glacier I got the other orange out of the rucksack, before Geoff should want to get back to the hut before eating it!
The glacier was horrid as usual; I crawled down some of it, but once on the track I was perfectly happy. There were a few spots of rain, but what did I care, forgotten were the horrors of the first A2, all I could think was that this made a glorious finish to the holiday, and so unexpected too.
Back at the hut we squeezed the remainder of the lemon with the rest of the water, sweetened it and drank it before packing and making our way to Montenvers and the sale des guides. It was cold, wet and wintry, when we came out and made our way to the station, but we soon got a train down.
I learned from Pete and Joan that Pete and Ken had caught the last train down the day before and had gone off that morning. I made tea, had a wash and changed, and then spoke to Ray and Grace who had called in to see if there was anyone they knew. I was very pleased to see Mac at last, back via the pear., from the Dolomites. He looked as though he'd been starving for months.
That evening for the first time I joined one of the celebrated English parties dining at the hotel de Chamonix. This wasn't at all the posh place I'd expected. The party consisted of Geoff and myself, then Mac and John Wilkinson from Coumayeur, and George Richie and Jimmy Marshall who had done the Pear the same day as the other two. It must have been a great day, the two ropes trying to race each other and, as far as I could gather, all four of them taking their own line up the rocks; the verdict seemed to be that the route was delightful, but dangerous, with the danger of ice-falls down the rocks.
The last member was Ian Hamilton who had sat about the Biolay all the week waiting for George to go home so that he could climb with Jimmy.
At one time I was going to try the fondue, but I was dissuaded at the last moment and had a dinner instead; however, Ian had a fondue and I was able to taste it at last, for he couldn't finish it.
We sat on and on talking, and I learned all that had happened in the Alps this year, I should imagine, and at about midnight they started to pull the shutters down, which we took as a hint, and went back to the Biolay, but not to bed. Oh no, they started to brew tea, and just sat there talking until 3 a.m.! I had been yawning for a long time, but I sat on just to see at what time they would turn in.
I got up as I thought just before 8 o'clock and went down the town to by my supplies, came back cooked my breakfast, ate it, and then thought I ought to wake the others. I looked at my watch and found that it said 8 o'clock. I must have got up at 6.45 instead of 7.45!
The banks were shut, either because it was too early, or because it was the guides' day, but I was able to change Swiss and Italian money at the tourists office.
George went all round town trying to flog his rope (he'd previous washed it with soap and water) but wasn't successful. Eventually at about 10.30 we were packed and ready to go. I sat in comfort in the front, while the other three were in the back. George and the Spanish couple who I had first seen on the Argentière; they apparently lived in Paris, and Geoff was giving them a lift back.
I began to see what a lot I had missed by always travelling back by the night train; this was a very pleasant way of seeing the countryside. We went through Annecy, and bought a few provisions, and then sat in a field in the shade of a tree and ate the bread and tomatoes and drank the wine – yes after two or three hours sleep the night before, I was foolish enough to drink wine in the heat of the day – I only just managed to keep awake that afternoon! We crossed one river where people were swimming and Geoff and George went. Pacquita and I had to be content with a paddle. As Geoff had warned us, the car didn't take so kindly to some of the hills, but he also said that, although things often happened to the car, they always happened in convenient places; sure enough the first time it boiled, it was just by a tap. Later on Pacquita had to go to a cottage for water and, after this, the engine wouldn't start, not even with pouring petrol down the carburettor (Geoff's usual remedy on these occasions), so he had to turn round and run downhill to start.
We reached Chalon that evening, and decided to dine there; we were sorry the Spaniards wouldn't come as well, for they brightened things up a lot. The strike was a much greater hardship to them, than to us, they were right out of money and couldn't get any as, with the postal strike, the Chamonix bank couldn't contact their Paris one.
We found the prices in Chalon far more reasonable than in Chamonix; we were able to afford the better meal. We had hors d'oeuvres, then ham, the main course, cheese and fruit, drinking the inevitable red wine with it.
The day had been very sultry and we weren't surprised that it looked as though it were working up for a thunderstorm that evening, so Geoff stopped at the first place which looked like providing shelter. This was where the road crossed a canal. There was a wide path by the canal, with plenty of room for us all. Geoff left the tarpaulins over the luggage in the boot, but I had a gas cape to protect the borrowed sleeping bag (Roger's) from the ground.
I was rather disgusted at the site of the 'bed', thinking it would be far too hard to allow much sleep, so I was amazed to find next morning that I had slept like a log. The next day, when people started complaining about the pavé in the towns, I could only think that, if it wasn't much good for roads, it was wonderful for beds.
We got up and then enquired at a nearby café for coffee, all they had was black coffee and no bread, so we went on to the next town and had a particularly happy breakfast in the sun outside an hotel – bananas and rolls and butter and jam. Again the only snag was that the Spaniards wouldn't join us.
Our road was leading us rapidly to Paris. There was quite a friendly spirit among the small proportion of G.B. vehicles – they never ignored us. This time we stopped for lunch at Auxere, buying provisions from a bad tempered grocer and eating them by the river. There was just time for me to make a quick trip with my camera round the town.
At Fontainebleu we stopped, while Geoff amused himself on the boulder problems. I remembered playing here in, was it 1937?, but then it was mostly trees I climbed, now I couldn't even be bothered to do that, and I think George and the Spaniards felt the same.
Eventually, Geoff managed to tear himself away and we went on to Paris, and took the Spaniards home, about 4 p.m., where they invited us in; they seemed to live in apartments with Pacquita's aunt, a Frenchwoman, who, as soon as she heard Geoff had been to Egypt, produced her photographs and souvenirs. Beer was produced for Geoff and coffee made for George and me (when I said I'd prefer it, I had forgotten that it might not be convenient to make it, with the gas supplies affected by the strike).
Before we knew where we were, we were staying to dinner, a meal which lasted for hours. There was apparently nothing in house, yet the meal was produced, tomato soup, fish, cold meat, peas, and then tomato salad. I was done by then and couldn't tackle the cheese; there were several bottles of wine too.
Towards the end some neighbours were invited in. Pacquita and I were to sleep in their place, apparently; after a while they began to get a little fidgety. I gathered the man had to be up at 5 a.m. and was eager to go to bed, so Pacquita and I went, leaving the others to clear up, and also to look at the photograph albums of climbing in Spain.
I had forgotten to wind my watch, and Pacquita had to call me. I arrived for breakfast at about 9 o'clock on this morning I should have been at work. After a leisurely breakfast, we left after thanking our hosts for a very pleasant stay in Paris.
Geoff drove round the city so that I could see a few of the sights. I was amazed to see that the leaves were already changing colour. We stopped by the Gare du Nord for George to make enquiries about his luggage, which was stolen on his way to Chamonix, and then we left for le Touquet. We drove straight to the airport, where we arrived in the late afternoon. Geoff said he was fifth on the waiting list and would probably get a plane at 8.30 the next morning.
We drove to the town and went down to the beach, where Geoff had a swim, and I soon got tired of paddling.
We looked all round town before deciding on a restaurant for our last French dinner and then we bought patisserie and took them into a bar and ate them with coffee.
Finally we drove back to the airport, and settled down for the night on the ground, but it was a noisy place, and I didn't sleep soundly despite the Icelandic sleeping bag. George I think got very cold towards the morning, for he had no bag.
We were up in good time and made our way to the desk where we were given forms to fill in. I didn't feel encouraged when I came to the part where they wanted to know the name of the next of kin! I next hung about the door of the restaurant, but it wasn't open. It was still being "done". Just as it showed signs of opening at about 8 o'clock, Geoff's name and car number was called, and we all had to go through the customs and show our passports.
Soon a mechanic was driving the car into the nose of the "Silver City's new type Bristol – it took three cars and then we were walking into the back of the plane. At first I chose a forward facing seat, but then joined the others who were facing back.
There were no air hostess refreshments or any of the other frills which I had believed were associated with flying, and in no time we were taxiing along the ground. We turned round and stopped and then the engines were revved up (I hope that's the expression) and when we started again there was a slight sensation of speed, but that went as soon as we were airborne, and the flight was perfectly tame, although the views were lovely. England came into view in no time at all, and we started to circle and before I knew what was happening we were bumping along the rough ground at Lympe, and we had arrived.
There had been a nip in the air in France, but this side of the channel there was a cold dampness. I felt my summer dress a little out of place, and instead of the lovely holiday clothes all women wore in France, the first woman I saw was dressed very formally, complete with hat and gloves.
The refreshment room served an English cup of tea, and then there was the customs, our passports were inspected, but the man didn't go near the car to see the luggage.
The main road to London seemed very poor after the French roads. I left the others at London Bridge at 12 o'clock and reached home at about 2. I was wondering whether I dared admit I had been in a 'danger' thing like an aeroplane, but mummy only said "I'm so glad, I was hoping you'd do something like that". And so to Nottingham at 11.45.
I amazed myself by getting to the station well before time and then having to wait for the bus. It was a lovely little 14-seater with nice room for luggage, especially as Bob Pettigrew and friend called off at the last moment, leaving us only 12. On the back seat were Margaret and Tom, whom I last saw on the February Langdale bus and their two friends Joan Boyd and Janet. I sat in front on a single seat and across the gangway were Chunky and Diane. In front were Derek Boddy and John Gadd, then Ray, and Geoff Gibson and friend.
Chunky was full of his grade VI's on Piz Palm; I tried to counter with my A2s on the Albert, but he didn't sound very impressed.
We stopped at Manchester for fish and chips and arrived at the Old D.G. at 2 p.m., the same time as a car. I thought it would be Arthur, but it turned out to be Ernest who had brought Bob and John Watson. I had told people I was camping about a mile up Michelden, on the left between the track and the river, beyond the last stone wall, so I was more than thankful that it wasn't raining when we arrived. I expected people to call off the walk at that time of night, but not a bit of it, and the four on the back seat joined us! The walk seemed interminable to me; I had lost all faith in the campsite, but went on because we had passed nothing suitable. We went through the gate and ran into a flock of sheep, so went on hopefully, and the, beyond the last stone wall, we came to a beautiful campsite, and were soon pitching our tents. John Watson had to come in mine and he went to bed, but I didn't, Oh no! I went into Ray's tent and he and Bob and I were brewing tea and looking at photographs until 4 a.m. by which time I was a little beyond sleep.
At 6.30 John Gadd got up, cooked his breakfast and then set out solo for Scafell and that woke the camp and I think we were all thinking of breakfast by about 8 o'clock.
Eventually we were ready and set out for Bowfell, although Arthur hadn't moved his tent – his car load had pitched on the path, a few hundred yards back, but they moved and joined us.
We cut up the hillside to Bowfell, the tigers got in front. Ernest and I with Derek, the new recruit, were in the rear. Ernest and I had Chamonix to discuss.
The top of the Band even was in mist, and it seemed a long way up to the traverse, but we eventually found it, and were seen along to the foot of the Buttress which was quite crowded. Ernest fed the 5,000 with his tin of sardines and some of Derek's bread, and then we set off up. Ernest and John Watson for the Plaque, Bob and Ray for the Central Route, while the meet leader was taking the novice up the Ordinary Route.
I didn't enjoy it a scrap and Derek, on his first climb, was moving far better than I was. I had a little trouble using my nails on the polished footholds of the first chimney, but Derek had no trouble with his vibrams. At the end of the third pitch, I offered him the lead (I knew the next pitch was easy), but he declined it, so I had to go up in the mist with the rocks dripping wet, with my cold fingers – for I had forgotten my mitts. We were following Geoff Gibson up the climb and had to keep waiting, and at the foot of the crack they seemed to have stuck, so they asked me if I'd like to have a go. I cheated at the bottom and used the belay rope as handhold. It saved me stretching those extra 2 inches to reach the rock hold, but I was up the rest a little quicker than usual. The rest went without incident, although I often hoped that Derek couldn't see me, for I felt I wasn't giving him as good a lesson in technique as I should.
We met Ernest and John at the top, and their impression of the Plaque route was the same as mine, that it was artificial and uninteresting, so, although I was sure that Derek could have done a 'vd', I suggested the Cambridge as a more sporting route and we all went across to it, taking our packs from the foot of the other climb. I had a particularly valuable one, it contained my autorange. Joy's Finetta, Bob's Selfix and Ray's Leica! The other rope started up the Cambridge; I found the first slab particularly unpleasant, the handholds were so slimy, I doubted if my fingers would stay on.
On the next, more delicate move I had to warm my fingers before I could finish it, for the wet mist was rapidly changing to rain. On the next pitch I had to leave my rucksack before I could finish it, and the next was the part I dreaded. I thought "I used to climb this, why should I do it again" and I had a rope from John (actually it wasn't difficult).
The next I shall always think of as the "hell's loose" pitch, but the loose block was missing and it was quite easy.
On the next little chimney, for the first time, Derek found it more difficult than I had done. It was a little slimy for his vibrams.
Next John was trying strenuous variations, so I got ahead by going up an easy chimney, and I went up the first step of the Giant Staircase, only to get the "Why should I struggle so" feeling on the second step, and I waited and had a rope down from Ernest and found it very easy after all – it started with a lay-back, and then it should have ended with a mantelshelf, but I swung a leg round and was up and waiting for the last pitch.
By the time Ernest was up I had learned the necessary technique, and was up and hauling up the sacs. Derek had also learned the methods, for he didn't need any instructions.
We didn't bother about the summit cairn, cut across and joined the line of cairns marking the way down. We dimly saw one of the Three Tarns through the mist and then cut down to the left and went down the Band. At possibly 1,000 ft level, we got out of the mist, but it was still raining at this level.
When the tents were right below us, we cut down towards them, but it was a nasty way, bracken, rocks, juniper etc. We didn't bother with the stepping stones. We were already wet through!
Back in camp, very welcome tea was being dispensed from the Marriott's Marquee and I sat in the doorway chatting while John changed in my tent. Joy had arrived, I had forgotten to leave her a note, but she said she hadn't been very interested in finding us in this weather.
I went back and changed, leaving my sodden things in the rain, and then we had supper, being joined later on by Bob.
Bob, Ray and I then went down to the Old D.G. I had on my only dry change of clothes, but I hoped my cape would keep me dry, with my pants rolled up. I took my blouse and woolly with me, hoping to dry them, for I had no spare ones. This was a vain hope. I was told that there had been a fire about 4 hours ago.
I stuck to draught cider, but it seemed to me completely non-alcoholic. I had the others drinking it before the evening was out.
Arthur had been up the Gimmer that day and told me in great awe he'd seen a party going up Gimmer Crack. I met them in the D.G., it was Geoff Sutton and co. taking a Frenchman up; the Frenchman was another Biolay type – Roger was there, and Dave Thomas came across for a chat.
I had poured all night until about 5 o'clock when it cleared up, and there were occasional gusts of wind, which, I thought augured well for a good drying morning, for so soon after my holiday, I haven't the incentive to put on soaking wet clothes.
Again John was first up. We weren't so slow in following him this morning and soon had our things on the wall, hoping that they were drying in the breeze and fitful sunshine. We had a leisurely breakfast, struck camp and were ready by about 11.30. My clothes weren't quite dry, so I carried them to the D.G., where I changed.
I had my rope and things for the day in my little rucksack which Pat carried for me.
On the way up to Middlefell, Bob stopped and dispensed bread and butter and cheese; Derek and I went up. I thought we could start by Derek leading Middlefell after the first pitch, but the caravans were still in possession, so we went on to Raven Crag, where I tried to find the start of the Original Route. After the first pitch, I decided I must be on Oak Tree Wall, but then Ernest from Liverpool said that I was on the Original Route all right. I was in rubbers, but this more delicate type of climbing didn't impress vibram-shod Derek anymore than had Bowfell in the rain.
I had preconceived ideas about the climb. I remembered when it used to be the 16th severe in the old guide and I knew no-one able, or willing, to lead me up it. I think I was only doing it now because I had heard that there was now a belay above the "belayless ledge" and as I moved up to this ledge, the numerous people passing along the girdle traverse confirmed that, and also emphasised the difficulties of the crux.
Last in the line for the girdle traverse was Ernie and I think he was only trying to be helpful, but he said that on the next pitch you started up a sort of crack, but this then petered out and there was nothing for about 5 ft; there were no handholds – and so he went on, so I thought that I must find that belay at all costs. I went up 15 ft, but found nothing, at least nothing to which I would be a beginner of a second, while I tried something so desperate! I came down and Ernie said that if I liked to wait until he came along, he'd point out the belay to me. I decided to wait, and utilise the time dropping the guidebook while taking off my anorak to put on my woolly. The wind was so strong that it blew the book along horizontally, instead of letting it fall.
Eventually Ernest came along, looked up, but said he couldn't see the belay, but thought that I hadn't been up high enough and suggested I had another look. I went up again and kept looking for the belay, until the angle of the rock eased off ahead, i.e., I had got over the crux, while looking for the belay to safeguard me on it, and I needn't have waited after all. Although it was easy, I thought the last 20 ft a very pleasant slab, but Derek took it all in his stride. One of the girdle traverses showed us the way down, and I found my book at the bottom.
Next we went along to Middlefell for Derek to lead. I suggested I should give him a rope for the first pitch, but he thought he might as well try it, and was up it like a shot. I found this most annoying, for it meant that I had to do it. I thought I'd carry my pack and boots up this pitch and then change to boots, but I found I couldn't do the pitch with a pack, and had to drop it. I then just made the crack, hating every minute of it. I was pleased to see Derek taking the belaying business seriously on the moderate part, and I don't think he found the last pitch any more difficult (I don't think he believed me that the first pitch is a noted problem).
It was about 3 o'clock by now, but Derek was longing for more, so I thought that he'd better lead Holly Tree Traverse – I knew he'd find it easy, but I had no reason to give him something too hard, just because he was good. Also it was quicker to do a climb I knew than to look out a different one.
The first little groove went a lot easier than it had when Margaret and I had found it so slimy; but next there was a hold up while Ernest and Ray went up the original route. I could see that Derek found the wall after the Holly Tree a little difficult, but it was well protected and he was soon up, and the climb was over.
I know Derek would have liked more, but I said I had a date with Joy for tea at 4 o'clock and he'd have to climb with Bob if with anyone, but Bob also was on his way down.
I changed into my boots, ran down to the Old D.G., changed and was ready for the tea which Joy ordered soon after 4 o'clock. She had been on a photographic expedition up Blea Tarn way.
Joy didn't want any rum butter, so I did rather well! I don't know whether we were meant to clear the table, but we did our best with our numerous friends; firstly Pat who wondered if they'd give her a cup of tea quietly. She had one of ours and we pressed food upon her. When we had finished, Joan came along, so we gave her tea (rather weak by this time) and told her to finish up the food.
The bus was ready soon after 5 o'clock, and I left Joy in Ernest's care.
Again we had a halt in Manchester, and we reached Nottingham at about 12.30, where the bus stopped for me in Theatre Square.
It was a lovely day; how I envied people climbing in Wales, as I wasted the morning about Nottingham, had a very hurried meal and reached Derby by 2 o'clock, where Ernest gave a lift to Pat, Derek Boddy and myself. It was many years since I had been that way, so I found the run, on the road overlooking Monsaldale very pleasant and we continued along the upland sort of country, down Perry Dale to Whitelee Farm, where we were camping. The rest of the afternoon passed very pleasantly and quickly. There were tents to pitch, tea to brew, and then a meal to cook, not to mention gossiping with everyone as they arrived. The first arrivals were Frank and friend, who had already been down Giant's Hole to spy out the land. Later on came Peggy and Ed, John and Bob, Alf and family, and Rowland, Allan Davies, Pete, Ron, Jack and John G.
Alf had been suffering from appendicitis but had recovered enough to conduct the party through the cave. Fairly late we made our way to the Devonshire Arms at Sparrowpit and tried to get ourselves in the right mood. I only had half a pint, perhaps that was my mistake, but no-one drank a great deal. They seemed almost apprehensive, and the gaiety seemed a little forced. At about 10 o'clock we set out and went 2 miles along the road and then half a mile along the road to Giant's Hole. We divided into two parties; Alf led 11 of us and Frank the other 6. I was with the large party and found it far too big – I got so cold waiting! It was alright at first, we followed the stream in, moving at a slightly higher level, and then we came to one move up, of moderate climbing (it was quite 'moderate' in its slimy state) and then Alf started leading us along a passage – there was a bit of everything in this, but it wasn't too wet or difficult. I was in the front and could hear Alf's chatter, which made it as interesting as that sort of thing could be. When the way divided we went along 'choice way' but came back the other way – yes we came back! – we went along as far as we could and then had to back out again! and unlike in Lathkill House, we weren't even promised the sight of historic initials if only we went far enough. Alf kept trying to cheer us up, telling us that there were bits of formation, stalactites or curtaining, but I didn't notice anything worth coming all this way to see.
After this it was a case that the last should be first, except that Alf went to the front again, and someone else had the encouragement which he could give.
We turned upwards this time, making for a new dig. There was almost a little interesting climbing, of the chimneying variety, needless to say – if only it hadn't all been so terribly slimy. I think Alf had us make a circuit in this part, just for the fun of the thing. I was right at the end, bored with waiting, and I found my mind almost detaching itself from its surroundings (it wasn't so difficult to do this in the small hours of the morning). I almost forgot where I was and listened to the voices. In reality they were all above me, but with the strange acoustics of the cave, they appeared to be all around me. It reminded me of an occasional play broadcast by the BBC – words are strung together into phrases, or even sentences, but somehow they have no meaning (at least not for me). Alf seemed to have lost Rowland and kept asking for him, and the very name seemed to fit in with the BBC play idea. Having made this circle, we started along for new dig proper, going through one crawl and then through a long pool – ugh! and so to the place where we could lock down and see a bucket and spade. What a thrill! but we only had to turn and go back through long pool, which was wetter in this direction, I found, and through the crawl. This part was very slow, again I was in the rear, and I had to keep waiting even in the wettest places. To anyone with a sense of humour this time of the morning it was incredibly funny. You'd choose a slimy rock to rest against, while waiting, only to find that the 'rock' resented your weight, it was one of your fellow sufferers and only distinguishable as an individual by its voice. Then another time you'd see another smaller piece of mud, and, to your utter astonishment it'd start to act as though it were a hand! During the waits, I had time to think – I told myself "You're not amused, why do you do it" and there and then I resolved not to do it again, that I'd spend the weekend in Wales another time and then I remembered Gantine's Hole we were supposed to be doing on Sunday – no I decided not to go down unless the weather was bad.
There was one more passage, the pièce de résistance, under the curtain! I was still at the end, and by the time I got to the curtain a number of people were standing about making no attempt to get under. I impatiently pushed them aside and hurried after the keen party, for I was resolved to do all I could in my last 'cave'. The water was colder than ever and there was no sign of life the other side, so I continued on along the water course, hoping that it was the right direction, and eventually heard voices and reached the others, about to turn back. I demanded to see the sights and was taken to the deep pool. It was certainly the largest chamber we had seen and the most interesting part of the cave.
Once outside I washed my hands in the cold water, but had nothing on which to dry them, but hurried back to camp, walking quickly or running the 2 miles, yet my hands were still absolutely numb. In fact, it took them about half an hour to warm up. I took of my muddy clothes, put on dry ones and was about to crawl into my bag, when I found that Pat was full of beans. She even fetched water so that we were able to have some tea, which cheered me up considerably.
Being a person of my word, I wasn't going to 'do' the cave, so I took my muddy clothes and put them in the stream as soon as I got up. I tried not to mention my subversive ideas to other people, for I had an idea that I might get a few followers, but it came out eventually; the trouble was that it was just the ones I had been talking to who didn't go down Gantines – Bob, Jack, John and Ron. I was glad that Pat and Peggy weren't put off. Some people had a very late breakfast and the party weren't ready until about 12 o'clock. I went with them to the entrance of the cave and I must say that I was a little envious as they disappeared inside with great enthusiasm. Perhaps it was their enthusiasm I admired!
Those of us left, had many ambitious ideas of a walk for filling in the time until the others came out. In the end all we did was sit and talk, and I believe someone brewed coffee. Then we had the amusement of seeing the others arrive back in the same state as we had done the night before and they had to pack those clothes, while mine were clean and dry by that time.
I was expecting Ernest to pick me up, so I was a little surprised when Bernard drew up outside the Y.W. He said that two had cancelled, leaving only five for the meet, and thought that the two cars might as well go together; he didn't think it worthwhile for all five to crowd into one car, but when he asked my opinion I said that I thought it a great waste to take two cars for only five people; however, when Ernest arrived he seemed reluctant to leave his car behind and said that it might be useful when we got there, so we set out. Bernard and Derek Boddy, in the golden-coloured Sheerline, and Ernest and I in the blue-grey Javelin. Bernard stopped to pick up John Clay in Sherwood, and then we got going – Ernest reached 75 mph on the Ollerton Road.
We had two stops, for tea at Doncaster, and for a break at Scotch Corner, where we left the A1 and kept on the Roman Road, eventually reaching Hexham, and then Bardon Mill, where we turned up towards the cottage of the Northumbrian Mountaineering Club. We found the place eventually, two of us went up and started looking at all the barns, but none seemed promising, and we didn't want to wake up the people in the 'house'. Then someone looked at the 'home' and found on the door "The Knowe Cottage of the Northumbrian Mountaineering Club. It was far more luxurious than we'd expected.
It was about 12 o'clock by this time, and by the time we'd got our stuff up, and woken ourselves up with tea and biscuits, it was 2 o'clock and so to bed.
I was first up and cooked the breakfast. For a change no-one was rude about my cooking. Bernard had been threatened by a visit of the hut warden, so he insisted on sweeping the place before he'd come out.
It wasn't sunny, but also wasn't too dull, so I took a few photos of the place, the blue door, and delicate pink tint to the walls made it an appropriate subject for my colour film.
Eventually we set out for the Wall and the cliffs. I was the only one who had previously seen the Wall and I promised them something several feet high, so they were as disappointed as I was that there was practically no trace of the wall over Craig Lough. We walked along the top to the far end, and then down to the foot of the cliffs, identifying a few of them until we came to a "dif" which Bernard considered suitable for a first climb. He suggested that Ernest took me and John Clay, and then, on my assurance that Derek could lead it, he said that Derek could lead him up it. I don't know why, but I wasn't happy on this climb. Possibly it was because I was in vibrams and the rock was green, or more likely that it just wasn't my type; the first pitch was O.K. but at the beginning of the second there was a move up without handholds which I didn't like, and at the top I succeeded in jamming a boot in a crack. John got up easily enough.
After this, Bernard suggested that he and I changed over and, while the three of them tried "Spuggles Gully", Derek took me up "Dexterity", a severe. I was quite impressed with this, my hands felt a little weak after the start of the second pitch, and the twin cracks at the top were quite interesting.
Next, Derek and I went up "Spuggles Gully" (vd) and then joined the others for lunch.
Our final climb was "Main Wall". Derek had quite a job on the first pitch of that. There were finger-holds it is true, but the cracks were sloping the wrong way for any footholds; however, he was up eventually and it was my turn. I felt I ought to have been able to get up using brute force technique, but at the same time I felt that I might have been able to get some help from my feet had I been wearing rubbers, instead of these ridiculous vibrams, with the spaces in the sole all filled with soil.
I soon gave up and looked around to the right; there was a delicate traverse! I made the first traverse and then tried to continue in the same direction, nearly getting myself into difficulties, for it didn't 'go'; however, eventually I thought to traverse back up again. This 'went' beautifully, and I was back on the climb again, above the strenuous part. It was a thoroughly enjoyable climb, four pitches and, although some were short, there was no incentive to run two into one. It was delightfully varied, a bit of a chimney and then at the top an optional, very delicate pitch. We met the others who had done "Dexterity" and decided to walk along the wall, towards Borcovicus (that's what it was in 1935, the last time I was there – I couldn't get used to the more correct borcovicium). Eventually the Wall as I remembered it, materialised, and we were able to walk along it until we came to the camp. A sheep dog barked at us – we didn't see the significance of this until later, when a man came towards us looking just like a bus conductor; however, his machine issued tickets for us to see the camp. Having paid my 6d. I felt I ought to get a little information for it, and began to question the man, and was able to buy a 1/- pamphlet about the place.
We had a quick look around and then continued in the direction of the Wall to the summit of the next hill. Beyond the camp there were only ordinary stone walls, no sign of the square stones, and rubble filled wall. We stopped at the top of the next hill, realising that if we went on there'd always be a hill ahead, so we went back to the camp; this time the dog didn't bark, he obviously knew we'd paid our sixpences. After a look around the museum we returned to the Knowe.
After tea we had soup, followed by a mixed grill, sausages, bacon, beans, tomatoes, and then Ernest's steamed pudding and "Lait Mont Blanc"
While we were waiting for the pudding to warm up, Ernest began to doubt whether it would be filling enough, divided among five, so I suggested a fruit salad, which everyone else prepared, apple, orange, banana and then Ernest's tin of strawberries and again his French condensed milk. Ernest had a whole suitcase full of tins, which he opened as required.
By this time a few more had arrived at the hut; the little warden, who reminded us of Chris Waters, and Pat and another. I immediately had a lot to say to Pat, I don't know why, partly that he had been to the Pyrenees this summer, and I was hoping to go in the coming winter, also he was from Derbyshire and thought that my best way back would be via Grantham, but I knew that there was nothing that way on a Sunday evening.
I had visualised a cosy evening knitting by the fire, but the Northumbrians thought differently. No, they wouldn't take us to the Twice Brewed, but to somewhere which I expected to be far more exclusive, the Common House. I went with Pat in his little Wolseley – he certainly had a liking for speed. I felt I made a good impression as I walked in; I was carrying an enamel jug and asked where I could get some milk. The lady eventually sold me a pint of her milk, in a bottle.
I had expected a quiet little place, but the noise! There was one man and I couldn't understand a word he said, and another I could understand "Give us a tune" he'd keep saying to me, and nod at the piano. It didn't seem to matter that I can't play a note! As odd as my request for milk, I felt, was my next action, to do my "homework". I had two blank pages in my guidebook and Pat lent me his book and biro, and I proceeded to copy them in and, with interruptions, it lasted all the evening. The party had been joined by Alan, who had been picked up from the Twice Brewed, already on double numbers of pints, so they said.
Back at the hut I showed my photographs and talked, and eventually went to bed at 1 o'clock, even the coffee I'd been drinking couldn't keep me awake.
When I got down, I was offered a cup of tea and after that there seemed no point in my making tea. I couldn't cook breakfast as I had used up all my own food the day before. I think the others thought it a poor show that I should sit and do nothing until they were up and had my breakfast cooked.
Eventually we got away, it was another day like Saturday, and Pat led us along the bottom of the crag, and then up a "diff" as a warmer up, and Derek soon thought he'd warmed up and was keen on a severe, so Pat took us up Great Chimney – I think Pat was more impressed by this than any of us!
Next it was Derek's lead and he did Central Organ-Pipe. Derek's inexperience is more noticeable on these chimney type of climbs than on more open ones. I suppose he doesn't know how to save his energy. The way wasn't scratched at all, and Pat said it was never done in boots. He was most impressed by it. I felt a little mean following up, for it was just my type, and I had put on rubbers which made everything much easier than it had been the day before. At the top we met one of two of the Northumbrian mountaineers who had arrived that morning, including Chris Waters, whom I have hardly seen since I came to Nottingham. It was nearly 2 o'clock by this time, so the three of us returned to the hut. Originally we had intended to cook a meal, but we weren't hungry, so didn't bother, had a few beans and odds and ends, with lots of tea, of course, then Pat ran us down to Bardon Mill, where we caught the 4.10 bus to Newcastle and had a long wait for the 7.05 train to Derby, arriving at Nottingham eventually on the familiar 1.46.
I had intended to catch the 7.10 direct to Crewe, but I wasn't ready in time, so it had to be the 9.06 and the journey wasn't really so bad. I went straight out to the tea hut at Tamworth and was amazed to find it double the size. I had my cup of tea and left before the 'regulars' arrived, and sat in the waiting room and sewed up the jumper I was knitting.
At Crewe the train was half an hour late, but again they put on the Windermere coaches and I got a carriage to myself, but I didn't feel sleepy so I finished my book (Murray's Story of Everest) and at about 5 a.m. settled down for the night, only to be awakened at 5 minutes intervals as we stopped at the stations. Eventually, I went into a deep sleep and slept through the stop, but this time I was awakened by a man opening the door and shouting "Windermere, all change". I asked if I could sleep on, but he didn't seem to think so, so I staggered out, dropping my ticket at his feet on the way. Once on the platform a hearty voice said :I think we're going to the same place". It was Ian Ogilvy, also of the committee. He didn't know about buses, so I explained about the walk to Ambleside to catch the 6.55 – it was then 5.50 – and we set out. I was most impressed by the Scotsman's long stride, but he had to shorten it to stay with me. He told me about his holiday a year ago in Corsica and the first two miles went very quickly, but then we stopped to take off woollies and I also sat down to put on more socks. I told Ian he'd have to go on if he were going to catch the bus; he said we'd stick together, but I insisted that he went on. My feet had got sore and even with more socks I was just about staggering, and was very glad to be going at my own pace. I don't know whether I looked a very pitiful object, but a lorry stopped, quite unasked and took me to the bus station, Ambleside; how glad I was that Ian didn't see me as we passed him – he wasn't walking so fast himself by this time. I arrived at 6.55, but had nice time for a cup of tea, before the bus left. I did a silly thing, I got out at Raw Head and then found that no-one else was at home, and I had to walk up to the old D.G. for the key – if I'd had any sense I could have gone there and back by bus!
It was much simpler than I'd expected to turn on the Calor gas and the water wasn't off. I soon had breakfast ready and sat down to eat it with a book open in front of me. This was nearly fatal – it was a dull day and I nearly forgot to go out! I read Smythe's account of the Ryan Lochmatter in his "Climbs and Ski-runs". I hardly recognised a single pitch!
Eventually I was off, and cutting straight up the hillside and then across Blea Rigg, above Stickle Tarn and on to Sergeant Man. The views across the tarn were lovely with the sun almost breaking through, on this hazy day. On the whole, the weather had let me down rather badly. While it was beautiful rock-climbing weather, I was on my own and had made up my mind to have one of those crystal clear October days when I could walk and use my cameras at frequent intervals. While there were some lovely effects, nothing was really very photogenic.
I enjoyed the day, it's such an age since I've been round the Langdales; took me back to the summer of 1942. From Sergeant Crag I went up the little lump to the east and then cut across to High Raise, and then to High White Stones. I had my lunch at the col before Thunacar Knott and then went on up Pike of Stickle from where the sun actually consented to shine on Gimmer. The wind at this point was so strong that I could hardly hold the camera steady. Next I went over the summit of Gimmer – when was I last on the top? – and so to the familiar ground, but in the opposite direction over Harrison Stickle and on to Pavey Ark where I intended to descend Jack's Rake. The trouble was that I had forgotten where to find the top. I went too far along, started to follow some scratches down and then found myself at the top of Gwynne's Chimney.
I knew this would take me down to the Rake, and I didn't feel it would be foolhardy to descend it, so down I went. Actually it wasn't as easy as I'd expected. I had to take my rucksack off my back to get down the chimney and then it kept getting in my line of vision, so that I couldn't see where to put my feet (also I was afraid that the rock would be a little slimy for vibrams).
I was soon down, down the Rake, and going along the far side of the lake, traversing down, below the cliffs of White Ghyll and so back to Raw Head.
Someone else had arrived (I had quite made up my mind that I was going to have a solitary weekend there!), but no-one was in, so I went along to the hotel for milk. I went in the bar and found Ian, Harry Parker and another man, drinking beer. They had been up Middlefell and Rake End; they invited me to a beer, but seeing a teapot in the bar, I said I'd prefer tea. After some time they said that I'd have to go behind the scenes to get any service; here I met my old friend Olive, who gave me the milk, but said I couldn't have a pot of tea, only an afternoon tea in the dining room and I decided to have this. I left the others to their beer and went in the front entrance. I'm afraid I considered the tea considerably inferior to that at the old D.G.
Back at the hut I met Mrs. Spilsbury who was very good at introducing the other people to each other. There was Ginger and a girl, also a couple from Liverpool, who belonged to the Vagabonds. When the subject of huts came up, they told us about their hut at Nant Peris. They are a club of 14 members and they have this hut for 12! They wrote to the Manager of the Penrhyn estates, who said he had this cottage which they could rent for 6/- a week. When they asked if they could have a 7 year lease, the rent was reduced to 5/- and it was decorated for them!
Harry Spilsbury came across for supper. When they saw that I wasn't eating anything (I wasn't hungry so soon after tea) they offered me some of their fresh fruit salad, which went down very well, and after coffee, Harry and I went across to the Robertson Lamb for the meeting of the hut sub-committee.
There were no real new developments. The London University still have hopes for Wales, but would like to build one at the cost of nearly £3,000! At least the committee now see my point of view, that there is need of another mixed hut in Wales. In Scotland, the cottage in Glen Torridon had got no further, as the owner had been trying to sell the estate; further developments were awaited, but at the same time the S.M.C. had investigated another cottage near Kinlochewe, to put forward as an alternative should the first one fall through. Apparently this one would be rented from a government department, so the question of the length of lease wouldn't be so important, and in some ways this seemed a better proposition. I thought I'd be retiring from the committee, but the chairman said no, it was for the B.M.C. to say when I should go, and they would have to appoint someone else.
The evening ended very pleasantly with tea and cake.
The committee had suggested that I should climb with them, but then they wanted to go to Scafell, which was out of the question for me, as I had to catch the 3.30 from Chapel Stile.
Again the morning was misty, so, partly hoping it would turn out clear, I decided on Lingmoor, for its views of the Pikes. I made many wrong decisions this day. Firstly I decided to go down the valley for a bridge, although the map said that there wasn't one until nearly Chapel Stile and I then walked back the other side of the river to Oak Howe, from where I cut up the hillside until I got trapped in the Juniper bushes. It showed how useless I was in unpathed country. Eventually I got round the scrub and up to a cairn on a summit above Lingmoor Tarn, and had my lunch.
My feet were rather sore by this time in my very worn-out old vibrams, so I decided to call it a day. It was a glorious spot, and glorious view, but not clear enough for photography. I cut straight down to Side House, and by that time found it clear enough for a photo or so, and then made my way back to the hut, earlier than I had intended. I made tea, ate the inevitable fried sausages and tomatoes, read, and then it was time to leave; had an ice at Chapel Style, tea at Ambleside, and, thinking to economise, I took the bus all the way to Carnforth, but the fare seemed to work out just about the same. I had an uneventful journey back, except that the train was a little late and I reached Nottingham at 2 a.m.
The party had assembled before the bus arrived; there was Arthur and Ed, Lucy, Frank, Brad and Pete, John Gadd and Oliver, Barbara, Chunky and Dianne, and on the back seat, Betty Emery and Ernest Rogers, with me. Ernest and Alf had taken their cars, with the rest of the party. We stopped for a drink before Shrewsbury, and then for tea at Llangollen – we weren't expected, but Chunky persuaded him to brew up for us. Barbara, Betty and I were dropped at Pen-y-Gwryd, while the coach went on to the Pen-y-Pass. It was a brilliant moonlight night and we thoroughly enjoyed the walk down to Cwm Dyli. I had a bit of a shock when I went in, to find that Val Jones was on the bed downstairs. I didn't know who she was at first, I was afraid she might be the hut secretary spying on me!
We drank tea, and then I found myself reading the journals, before making the effort to go to bed.
I was first up, at about 7.20, and we all set out at about 9 o'clock and reached the Pen-y-Pass well before 10 o'clock. The main party were still at breakfast (we were told that Ed had only just got up) so I said that Betty and I would climb on the Three Cliffs. Then the campers arrived and seemed to expect me to climb with them on the other side of the valley, but I felt that Betty would get a better day's climbing by my original plan, so I slipped out saying that we were climbing on the Three Cliffs and if anyone else was interested, they'd better follow. All was quiet, walking down the road, and then a shout. Pat and Anne asked if they could join us. That seemed a splendid idea, for Betty and I could both lead! (I know that Pat would also like to lead, but I felt that it would be quicker if I did, as I knew my way about). I felt that we must have absorbed some of the Pinnacle Club spirit, after our night in the hut.
We crossed the bridge and went up to Dinas Cromlech, where we waited for the others, and also for Jean Griffiths who had come on the morning bus. Eventually we were all up at the foot of 'Spiral Stairs' and I started up, after asking Betty to tie a rope behind Anne for the traverse. I hadn't bargained on Jean making a fifth and we hadn't enough rope; however, Anne came along trailing Betty's rope, and then there was room for her to stand while she unroped, and I sent the rope back for Jean. Anne next tied on in the middle and I set off up the next pitch, finding a belay half way, which eased the rope situation. We all gathered at the top, and set off, coils in hand, to find the way down, when I saw the chimney above the valley, and we made another pitch to the climb. We were soon down to our rucksacks, sharing oranges and chocolate, and then walking along to the next cliff, Carreg Wasted. I had originally thought of Crackstone Rib, but it was becoming obvious that we shouldn't have time for more than three climbs, and Jean had done Spiral Stairs, and Crackstone Rib before, so I made for the Wrinkle, which went very easily for us all. Spiral Stairs had been very cold to the fingers, but the lower cliff was more sheltered, or else the wind had dropped. I was taking no chances over the way down, and we went down the eastern side of the cliff, and I hurried everyone along to Clogwyn-y-Grochen, rather fearing that there wouldn't be time for another climb. I was rather thrilled at the thought of doing a different route; Betty was a little doubtful, she felt that inevitably a route with a name like 'Nea' would be too difficult for her.
My common sense said that it was too late to set off up a climb, but I remembered Graham Brown's words at the Oread Dinner; he had said that there was more of a spirit of adventure in the modern generation, compared with the generation between the wars. I knew that my common sense was definitely of the inter-war years, and had cost me many a climb, so, substituting a torch for my camera, I set off up at 3.45. I broke the long pitches to save unroping. I belayed onto the first holly tree, brought up Anne and then continued up the groove. I realised that the step across would 'go' without a right handhold, but it seemed to me that a handhold ought to be provided on this climb, so I felt around until I found it, for it was there right enough. The next holly tree provided a stance alright, but most of it was dead, so I put the belay round the rock, which wasn't very good. Again I broke the next pitch to avoid unroping, and then landed on the parched blocks and looked up at the band of yellow rock, and agreed with the book, it certainly looked steep.
I climbed this rather badly, my one thought was speed; I must get a rope up before dark and I( didn't know how many more difficulties were in front of me. Brute strength got me up the first part, and then I 'swam' over the mantelshelf at the top. Anne and Jean joined me very easily, and then I went up the last pitch before it got dark – actually this pitch was very easy. I left Jean and Anne to direct Betty, but I did rather a silly thing, I took my torch up with me.
I had felt that Betty ought to have a rope down, but I knew that she'd be annoyed if she didn't finish her lead, so I said nothing, relying on her common sense to ask for it, if she felt she needed it. With Jean's instructions, she was soon up, and Anne and Jean came up the last pitch while Pat climbed the steep one. Now came the part I dreaded, finding the way down, with the thought of Joan Boyd always in my mind, we kept the ropes on. I knew one cliff it was necessary to go up a little way, and then down the next spur and this is what we did, although I wasn't sure whether it was from this cliff, going down grass which was so steep that you couldn't tell whether or not it ended in a cliff. We were getting down famously, when Jean, who was in front, announced that there was a pitch; I thought that we must be wrong, but as Jean showed me a thorn bush for a belay, I tied onto it, gave her the torch and paid out her rope – there was just enough to get her down, and she directed the rest of us down, and so back to our rucksacks, where the other three put on their boots and so down to the road by about 6.30. This had been my deadline; I thought I daren't be late back to dinner again, after that time in the snow, two years ago, and I thought it would take an hour to get up the pass, actually it only took about half an hour, and time passed very quickly with Betty chatting nineteen to the dozen.
There was nice time for a drink and wash before dinner. The residents had the large table; with the campers. We were round the end table, and had a most enjoyable meal. We didn't go into the lounge, and sat afterwards in the entrance hall, which was very warm and cosy, and talked until the five of us thought it time to go down to Cwm Dyli. Val wasn't at home, had left a note saying she'd be late; we soon had the kettle on, and drank tea and looked at books before turning in, soon after 12 o'clock.
I didn't wake up until 7.30, I announced the time and Betty was out like a shot, and got the kettle on and breakfast under way. It was a few minutes before I could drag myself out of bed, I'm afraid. This time Val woke up and talked at intervals during breakfast. I swept the dormitory and cleared out some of the ashes as a gesture and at, say, 9.15, we were ready and set out, going up to the Pen-y-Gwryd to leave our rucksacks.
At the Pen-y-Pass the hotel party were still about, but we learned that the 'tigers' among the campers had already set out. The same five of us set out for Crib Goch Buttress (so we announced) and meant to approach it over the summit of Crib Goch.
We were rather a slow party; we stopped once or twice – I know I stopped to put on a woolly at one point, for the wind there was biting. We went up the little chimney on the left, on the way up to the summit, and then along the ridge. I was a little concerned for Anne. I knew she was tired, that she wasn't used to her nailed boots and I could imagine the wind making life very difficult for one so light in weight (Jean I knew was more used to this sort of thing, for I expect she weights even less). I followed Anne pretty closely, but I needn't have worried; I don't think she shared John Watson's disappointment in the Ridge! On the whole, there was a wet mist, but there was one glorious moment when the wind almost blew one side of the ridge clear of mist, leaving it clinging to the steeper northern side.
It was only about 12.30 when we reached the pinnacles, but Betty and I had the same idea, had we time for the climb? – half an hour down to find the foot of it, two hours up and two hours to get down. We should just do it, but it left no time in hand for catching the bus, so we decided against it. I think also in our decision it was the mountaineers in us winning over our 'boulderer' selves. None of the other three had done the Horseshoe, so it was an obvious thing for them (I think we wouldn't have hesitated to have tried the Buttress had we had a chance of doing the Horseshoe afterwards).
We went up the Crazy Pinnacle, and looked down onto Read's route, and so on along to Crib-y-Ddysgl.
I'd had quite a dread of doing the same old Horseshoe again in the same old misty November weather. I think the last time I was this way in snow I had thought how boring it would be under ordinary conditions, yet here I was thoroughly enjoying myself, wouldn't have been anywhere else for worlds.
Then it started to happen. Occasionally the mist would clear from around us, giving us a glimpse of another world. 'Snow mountains all around' was my description of the sea of clouds and I wasted a few colour exposures on the effect.
Usually this part of the ridge seems rather long in the mist, but this day we were up Snowdon in no time, Anne quite forgetting she was tired, with the wonderful effects.
From the summit, there was a splendid broken spectre, with the rainbow far brighter than I have seen it before. Someone else on the summit said that it was the view of 100 years. I changed my colour film as quickly as I could, and was able to make one or two exposures, for our halos kept re-appearing.
Soon we set off down for Lliwedd. We went up this in thick mist, and it seemed a much longer ascent than usual. Another halt on the top and we then started down, when it happened again. The mist cleared round us, but remained clinging to some of the crags, and our ghosts were there again, but this time with much larger halos. Again I got out the camera, and tried my luck.
It is an easy way down and we reached the hotel with a quarter of an hour for drinking tea. We couldn't change for our packs were down the road.
Jean had carried her pack up, expecting to go down to Llanberis from the summit, but she couldn't drag herself away from the Horseshoe, and found herself back at Pen-y-Pass. I hope she got a lift down. We left Pat and Anne to go with Ernest, while Betty and I got in the bus, perfectly content with the whole weekend.
At the Pen-y-Gwryd I not only picked up our rucksacks, but also two other passengers who wanted to go to London. I told them that they'd better come to Nottingham, but they were sure that their best plan was to get out at Shrewsbury.
At the beginning of the bypass, the driver stopped and said he wasn't going in the town; he didn't know whether he'd enough petrol for it. Arthur let it go at that, but I'd been promising Betty a meal in the town, so I insisted that we went in – it had become a matter of principle with me. He was there to drive us where we wanted to go!
In no time we were back in Nottingham and I was indoors soon after 11 o'clock. Alf says we must have been doing up to 50 mph for he was following us part of the time.
Betty and John had plenty of time for the 11.55 train – John Drury had decided that his best way back to Reading was via Nottingham.
Bob and I caught the 7.10 to Crewe; I was optimistically carrying an ice axe, Bob wasn't so hopeful. At Crewe we drank soup on our arrival platform and then slowly made our way over to platform 2 to await the 2.18. Only the new refreshment room was open, we sat in there, getting cups of tea at intervals, and reading the next day's papers. The train was a good half hour late, but eventually we were settled in the empty Windermere carriages and had the usual horrible shock to be awakened in Windermere at 6.10.
I don't know whether it was because the train was later than usual, or whether it was because of Hogmanay, but there was no traffic on the road. I don't know why, but I wasn't amused in the slightest by the walk, and was so thankful when a bus came along and stopped for us.
At Ambleside, Fred's was open, and the tea went down very well, and eventually it was time for the 8.40 to leave, and we rode up to Raw Head. I felt rather silly with my ice-axe, for there wasn't a trace of snow on the hills, although it was a bitterly cold day. There were many cars outside the hut, but we thought we'd try our luck. Bob asked Mr. Kendrick, and learned that both huts were filled to capacity, so we walked on to Wall End Barn for breakfast and a snooze, before setting out for the day – I've never succumbed to the drowsy feeling before, must be getting old. I got right in my bag too, for I couldn't keep warm otherwise.
The new boots weren't broken in, so I had brought my vibrams, and they landed me in a stream, on the way up Oxendale.
We made our way up on the (true) right bank of Crinkle Gill – having some rather pleasant effects with the mist down the valley, but all too soon, the odd rays of sunlight stopped and the scene took on a cold, wintry tinge and very soon we were in a wet mist, and under these conditions the Crinkles weren't particularly interesting. We stopped for something to eat half way, and then continued to Three Tarns and up Bowfell, where we agreed to call it a day and not to go on towards Scafell. We descended by Hell Gill, but at the bottom, I took the wrong track and got up onto the lower part of the Band – and so to Stool End and onto the D.G. which we reached just before 5.30, but, instead of a pot of tea, there were cups, which isn't the same thing at all.
Back at the barn, Bob cleared a little space and started to get the meal ready – he was really disgusted by the state of the place. We had egg soup, followed by sausages and finally Christmas pudding and tea. We were finished by about 8 o'clock, so we went down to the D.G. to pass the evening. At first there seemed no-one I knew, but then a Karabiner girl spoke to me. She had last seen me at the Pinnacle dinner – she used to stay at Wall End in her single days, apparently.
We learned why the meet was so well supported, apparently Alf Gregory had given a lecture there on the Friday night – a rather more personal one than the public ones – but I suppose one without the £200 lecture fee!
Many of the 'Barners' were there. How they amused me; there were a few very young lads teaching themselves to climb on Scout (quite sensible for their age, I thought) and then there were the tigers – one took 4 hours to climb 25'. Their leader I thought was Harold Dresdo (I even plucked up courage to ask him where these desperate deeds were being done – it was to the east of Raven Crag). I don't suppose Draz knew that I'd seen him before, but he had passed an hour or so for me in the Biolay. I had heard all about his deeds on that dreadful route on the Grand Charmoz and then he turned up in person to discuss it with Hamish. The latter called it the hardest climb he'd ever done. Draz got up to the last pitch, couldn't make it 'go' and had to retreat down the whole route, getting drenched in a thunderstorm on the way. I remember that while he was talking the Norwegian girl was sketching him. He made a perfect subject for a caricature.
We had resolved to get up early, but it is so easy to weaken when one is snug in one's bag. I had no intention of getting up first; I was so sorry for myself. My cold was worse, my throat was so sore I wouldn't be able to swallow any breakfast – I should never be able to climb…. Yet as soon as I was up I forgot all about my sore throat – what a dreadful place bed is!
Bob had got the breakfast ready by the time I was up and then we slowly cleared up, packed, paid the farmer. "When are we going to get some mod. cons. for our money?" someone asked, and Bob turned his back on the barn for good and all.
We left our rucksacks in the D.G. and set off up for Raven Crag.
On the crag we were out of the wind; I had three woollies on, and the sunshine was delightful. The only trouble was that I wasn't in a climbing mood. I couldn't seem to exert myself in any way. I was very slow following Bob up this. I found a different way of starting the second pitch, and then joined Bob who had belayed before the traverses. I paid out the whole 120 ft of rope. Bob was out of earshot, so I wasn't sure what to do (less than 60 ft should have brought us to the top), but eventually I went on. I took a lower line on the first part of the traverse, and then crossed the Original Route where we should have gone up, but the rope went on so I tried to follow it, but went back for a rest before one point – it was the "semi-hand-traverse under the overhang with an awkward move at the end", but once embarked on the awkward move, it worked out fine, and I joined Bob at the top of "Holly Tree Traverse" and so down to our boots and the start of another climb, so Bob thought, and I agreed to start one, but retreat if I was too slow. I was saved from this climb by the appearance of another climber.
He was for Evening Wall, and I kept waiting for his companion to appear, but when the Boy set off sole, I realised that he had no companion and had been hoping to join us. This was just what I wanted, and I unroped and got Bob to climb with Bob, while I ambled to Chapel Stile at my own slow pace. Even with the boy who knew the climb, Bob didn't get up until 2 o'clock, so it would have cut it too fine had I done it, although I had a good half hour to spare for the bus. I must remember that that walk can't possible take more than an hour!
At Ambleside we had a cup of tea at Fred's, but then adjourned to the Central Café to get out of the bitingly cold wind.
The journey back was uneventful, changes and tea at Carnforth and Leeds, and then a last wait at Derby, but 2 o'clock was all too soon for me to get back for I was reading Fraser Darling's "Island Farm" and was sorry to put it away at Nottingham Station.
The bus got away from Nottingham pretty punctually, but wasted about 30 minutes for two people who didn't turn up at Derby.
We had our usual halt before Shrewsbury, but the milk bar was closed at Llangollen. We took it steadily as there was snow on the roads after Shrewsbury, but we seemed to get over the ground pretty quickly – the roads were clear from Bettws, and we reached Ynnys Ettws at about 1.30. Here we found Pat, Anne and Betty waiting; they were Ernest's passengers and had come round the coast road to avoid the snow, but they hadn't been able to find the key. Bob accompanied us back to Cwm Glas Mawr and soon found the key and opened the door.
We started allotting beds, one dormitory for the Polaris and the other for the Oread, but the latter preferred the floor in front of the fire, so the Polaris girls got a bunk.
We went up to Ynnys Ettws where most of the men were staying. I think most people had independently decided that it was the day for the Parson's Nose Arête and a long crocodile set out in that direction. On the lower parts, there was some clear ice and magnificent icicles on the cliffs. Soon we got into the powder snow and stopped just below the arête; I went on up, and for a moment I thought there would be a 'Pinnacle' crocodile in front, but not for long. We were overtaken before reaching the Western Gully, which we considered a suitable way onto the ridge.
Bob led Anne and me, then Arthur followed on with (I think) Betty and Alan.
I was intrigued to follow Anne. I remembered that in November she hadn't thought much of them. I thought that she must have practiced a lot with them, for she was using them beautifully – 1 tricouni on a hold and up she'd move, far better than I could follow! – but it seemed that this was practically the first climbing she'd done in them!
Different ropes took different lines. There was one point which no-one took direct, and eventually we were up, and walking up the rest of the ridge – longing for the view over, for the snow was quite thick underfoot at this level, and there was a cloudless blue sky overhead.
Eventually we were on the summit ridge and in the sunshine with the view all we had hoped, but perhaps what I remember most clearly about this spot was Anne lying in the snow. "Do you think if I persevere that in time my legs won't ache quite so much". Some of the Oread passed us, along from Crib Goch. John and Barbara arrived, John saying that going out every weekend in Scotland, there might be two days like this in the year. Eventually Arthur's rope arrived, and we set off for Snowdon as there was no sign of Ernest and Alf and their party further behind. After many stops for photographs, we reached the summit and ate in the warm sunshine, sheltered from the cold air which we'd found on the ridge.
After some discussion we decided to go back the way we'd come and along Crib Goch, in preference to over Lliwedd and then down along the track and round. We dallied on the ridge to see the sun set behind a bank of cloud, and then continued along Crib – it's so much easier this way and then down the northern spur, which seemed new to quite a number of the party. It was dark just before we reached Ynnys Ettws, where I insisted that the girls were due for a cup of tea (I wanted to see over this most expensive of all huts!).
Back at Cwm Glas Mawr, we soon had a meal ready; Betty cooked the meat, while I made a fresh fruit salad, and then we were ready for the evening's amusement. People insisted on walking up to the Pen-y-Pass. It nearly killed me, my boots had been fine all day, but those two miles, if they didn't draw blood, at least they drew a blood blister. I hardly knew how to keep up too and Jean Griffiths, who had arrived that evening, left me standing, the rate at which she passed me!
On the way we met Ernest, Alf, John and Pete. They'd eventually got up the ridge and then gone on up Snowdon and descended the Pen-y-Gwryd track in the dark, and then found the causeway under water.
We weren't away very early – we felt we'd had the day of the year on Saturday, but eventually the parties from the two huts joined together, and we set off up the hillside opposite, hoping to find an interesting rock ridge, similar to the one on Crib-y-Ddysgl. The way was interesting right from the start – there'd been more snow in the night, and there was no track, and we pulled ourselves up by heather roots when all else failed.
We watched a fox running higher up and then I tried to follow its tracks, but soon found I was an inferior mountaineer and roped up with John Gadd and Betty. We retreated from that place. John led us up another pitch and then I led a pitch, where we caught up with the others, also roped, who hadn't followed foxes' tracks! We stopped for lunch, decided there wasn't time to go higher, for the rock had no incut holds, and it was slow work climbing it, with its coating of snow. Bob and Alan started down, making across a gully to a smooth snow slope to the east. We later followed their tracks, but when we called over to them they said they didn't recommend their route and advised us to go further down. When we were half way down they said that the bottom of our gully petered out, but John wouldn't retreat, he kicked or cut the steps down, finding belays at suitable intervals until he came to the bottom 20 feet. Here there was unstable ice, so he got Betty belayed and tried the rock to the side. He came off, as he expected, but Betty held him too well, and was pulled off her stance onto her belay and was hanging upside down until John could climb up a little way. All this time Arthur was shouting down to me to pull Betty's rope – I shouted across to Bob to ask if this would do any good, but got no reply. Eventually it was all sorted out and I was down to Betty, who got out her rope to use as a spare rope, but we found it unnecessary. All we had to do was to sit in a rock groove, lubricated with snow and slide. When it came to Ernest's turn, he did a proper rappel.
After this, the way was easy, we simply had to follow the tracks made by Bob and were soon down, back to the hut for a quick snack and to pack, and then, we figured, to do the washing up as well as the clearing up of the Oread members who had walked out quite an hour before they need have done.
Betty alone accompanied Ernest back; Pat and Anne took the two vacant seats in the coach, as Ernest would only have taken them as far as Nottingham.
Remembering that in the summer the 9.44 got me to Newhaven in plenty of time, I caught it again, despite the change at Lewes.
At Lewes, the connection seemed a long time coming, and then I saw the boat train go through which left me a little worried. Eventually I called across the line to some railway men and asked the time of my connection. "10.19" was the reply, so I asked if they knew what time the boat sailed. "It doesn't go until 11 o'clock, you've plenty of time" was the reply so I ceased to worry and enjoyed the run to the coast, although the Downs looked rather brown, with the streaks of snow in the corners of fields.
At Newhaven, a man offered to carry my skis, but I wasn't in need of help and I didn't take much notice of his warning that the boat was just going.
Further up the platform there were several officials waiting, "Come on, hurry up, we're waiting for you; they wired that you were coming!" I never did learn whether this was true, but I learned that the boat was due to leave at 10.45 and I know the time tables say that they're apt to go 10 minutes before time if they're ready, so the 9.44 doesn't leave enough time when its Greenwich mean time!
It was very nice having about a dozen officials just standing there, with nothing to do but direct me this way and that, to comply with the formalities. Firstly I must have my skis registered to Paris, then I was to go to one official who looked at my passport, and asked me how much English money I had. Then I was taken back to the customs man who chalked my bag and also asked me how much English money I had, and at last I was on the boat.
It was very much a case of personal service in the Restaurant – when the waiter learned that I was for Spain he was very sorry for me, and told me of one party back from there who'd lived for the whole of their stay on fried eggs. He hastily calculated which day the English boat would be coming back (it – the "Brighton" – runs alternate days with the French boat) for he said I'd certainly need an English meal on the way back!
Across at Dieppe there were no further hitches. I boarded the Paris train, found my reserved seat, and sat and waited for the officials to come round. I was in Paris an hour before I expected; I'd forgotten to put my watch on an hour.
There was no Cecily waiting for me, but I found my way round to the registered luggage and claimed my skis very quickly, and then found the inter-station bus. I asked a Calais man to make sure which station it was for Toulouse and then I asked the bus driver for "Gare d'Austerlitz". My English accent did me a good turn - it singled me out as an individual – he knew just which tickets I needed.
The bus practically emptied at the Gare du Lyon and I was afraid my luggage might get put out by mistake – but of course the driver wouldn't do a thing like that, wasn't I for the 'Austerlitz'.
I had a lot of trouble finding my way into the station, but once there, it was easy enough to find the train with our reservations and to find my actual seat. I left my luggage there, but the train was in the dark and there was another man in the compartment and I didn't like to go far. In the light during the journey we discovered that the man was quite a nice type, but I wasn't to know when he only a dark shape.
Eventually Cecily arrived, complete with great coat and innumerable packets of luggage, her rucksack and skis, large grip, Swiss Airways bag, ski luncheon bag, and handbag – I was to get used to counting them! – but I oughtn't to grumble for the Swiss Airways bag contained food for the next twenty-four hours, for the pair of us.
We had a very pleasant journey; at first we ate and talked – another man in the carriage had been to Cambridge and hadn't a trace of a French accent, when he spoke English. When we settled down for the night, there were rarely more than three people in the carriage and we were able to stretch out on the seats.
Toulouse at 5 a.m. came all too soon and we got out, had time for a cup of coffee at the buffet – how do they keep these places so cheerful at this time of day? and caught the 5.20 to Puigcarda. The journey was amusing but tedious – stopping at every station. Foix looked as though it was worth exploring, but I don't remember much about the other towns.
My chief regret was that I had forgotten my map and I didn't know when we came out of a tunnel, whether we were in the same or a different valley.
We missed the distant view of the Pyrenees, for we were among the foothills before the sky became blue.
I had hoped that when I saw l'Hospitalet, the sight of it would explain the name. Needless to say it didn't! Another stop or so and we were at Tours du Carol where it was a case of "All change".
After the way the French customs had come round the train from Dieppe, I couldn't see why they had to be so awkward at this frontier. I eventually concluded that, as the Spaniards were awkward, they thought they'd be the same.
I was thankful that there was only a handful of people travelling, for we had to queue up and wait while an official copied all the details from our passports into a large book – in beautiful, slow handwriting.
I noticed that the wider gauge Spanish rails came to the station, so I hoped that we could get into the Spanish train here, but not a bit of it, we eventually returned to the same old train.
While waiting, we visited the bookstall where Cecily bought a Michelin map of the district; I didn't, thinking that there must be something better – little did I know! Cecily also found a helpful man. We were rather keen to visit Andorra, and he was able to tell us that buses ran there from Puigcerda, or we could take our skis over a pass from l'Hospitalet. This sounded exciting, just the sort of thing I wanted to do! – but meanwhile we were booked in at Nuria, and had to get there as soon as possible.
Three or four more miles brought us across the frontier to Puigcerda, where we left the French train. The Spanish officials were more haphazard than the French, various officials looked at and stamped our passports, but there was no taking of particulars, and the form about money, which we had filled in, was ignored. They put our luggage behind a counter so that we could spend the spare hour or so looking round the town.
There was snow everywhere underfoot, and the local stone and buildings had a yellow tinge, and the combination wasn't particularly colourful for my camera. There seemed nothing of very great interest, until we suddenly got the idea that we must have a drink – for all I know Spanish women never go in bars, but we were dressed in ski clothes and I'm sure didn't look in the least like Spanish women, so we marched boldly in the nearest one, and were rather charmed by it. There was a goodly array of bottles and then, on the counter, were bowls of all sorts of exciting looking food, sea animals etc. I've no idea what they were for, I've never seen anything like it before! Fortunately the man spoke French. We asked for an Aperitif and he wanted to know what we'd like, so we said something Spanish – he pointed to a shelf of Sherries – we were disappointed until we remembered that they really were local. We asked for the best and received Dry Sack. There were two Spanish speaking men also drinking and eating some tasty morsels from small plates. We looked interested, so they let us try some. Cecily was first, liked it, and immediately ordered two saucers for us. I tried it and immediately thought "If this is Spanish food, I'd rather starve than eat it" (and I pride myself on liking foreign food) and, on thinking that if I don't like a thing at first, I can persevere with it until I get to like it. I began to understand the party who'd lived on fried eggs. I supposed that was the only thing they could eat! I wondered what this was we'd been eating – I examined it in a lighter corner of the bar and recognised it as tripe! - heavily disguised of course, with subtle flavourings added, but it's the one thing I can't stand, whenever I try it, I get the feeling "I'd rather starve than eat this".
Cecily finished my tripe, but I enjoyed my Dry Sack, and then it was time to go for our train, but not before one of the men had told us that he was looking for an English wife – and I'd been warned to keep off the subject of Gibraltar, that the English weren't popular in Spain etc.
In the next train we soon realised that we'd crossed another frontier and, as Cecily said, to bring back a record of one's holiday one would not only need a ciné camera, but a tape recorder as well.
There was a group of boys who appeared under the charge of an army officer, but the boys were very untidy. The only thing they had in common were great wooden cases and I'd almost say carpet slippers on their feet. One or two had great musical instruments and they passed the time singing and shouting.
We passed through La Molina. There was plenty of snow about, but we didn't get an extensive view from the train.
At about 2.30 we got out at Tibas da Fressa, and made our way to the mountain railway, the waiting room for which was locked up. We peered through the window at the timetable. There seemed to be a train at 4 o'clock, so we took it in turns to look after the luggage, and go into the town, as well as have coffee at the buffet of the main station.
Eventually a little man came along and Cecily tried out her Spanish on him, and soon learned that the trains on the timetable only ran on feast days and holidays, but that as it was Sunday there'd be a special train at 5 o'clock (had it been a weekday we'd have missed the last train!).
All things come to an end, even this wait at Ribas, and at last the little electric train, made in Switzerland, appeared; we felt quite at home in it.
I'd finished off my colour film in Ribas; I'd taken one of the street and the last of a snowman outside a hotel, for it was quite well done, but I couldn't be bothered to put in another film, really expecting that we'd be skiing down this way, and make this trip again.
About half way up we came to a most wonderful gorge and there was a red tinge to the rock instead of the usual yellow. Then looking back, the alpine glow lit up a snow mountain, until the evening turned dead, and white and grey.
At about 6 o'clock we came to the station of Durie, the terminus, and, without a word, a man with "Puigmal" on his cap took some of our luggage and carried it to the funicular – nice touch I thought – and one more change and one short ride took us to our hotel. We were shown to our room by the English speaking manager, a Swiss, who informed us that the Mediterranean was visible from the window on a clear day; we never had a clear day, but I was absolutely fascinated by the view, and found myself photographing it at all times of the day. Far below was the deep black V of the gorge which carried the rack railway, then to the left was the snowy dome which received the last of the alpine glow and, in the distance, was black ridge behind black ridge, with the valleys between sometimes filled with clouds. The sky was always as interesting and more colourful than the mountains.
Cecily had a bath. I had a wash and we then went down to the bar for the inevitable sherry. Soon a man came over and spoke to us, wondering who had written the letter in excellent French, booking at the hotel. He talked a lot, he was queuing for the diplomatic corps, and was spending his time seeing a bit of Europe, and living cheaply on his friends, one gathered. He had lived in London, and spoke about five languages I think.
A Spanish dinner was served us by a French speaking waiter – and we realised that the food here was excellent – I was glad to be reassured by the manager that tripe was never served in the hotel!
We went to bed early to recover from our journey, but neither of us slept well; we began to realise why the glass in one of our outer windows was broken; it was because the outer window didn't open – someone must have broken the glass in desperation, for there seemed no air in the room.
The Swiss were very scathing about the Spaniards – they didn't know how to build mountain hotels, there were draughts all over the place – I wished I could find a few draughts; I went about in my short sleeved blouse, instead of the couple of woollies the natives wore.
We came down a little shamefaced at about 9.30 and found no-one about; we thought we were too late for breakfast. It was only later we found that no-one else breakfasts much before 12 o'clock, by which time the best of the snow is gone. Eventually, coffee, rolls and butter and jam were brought to us, and then we set out to ski.
The place was supposed to have a ski school, but when we enquired about it, we were introduced to the solitary instructor (a Swiss), but he said he was too busy to take us that day.
We found tracks skiing down above the funicular to Nuria. Then we went on to another little town and found the ground well beaten down here, and I stayed on this beaten ground to reteach myself to stem-christy – Cecily went up higher, and once persuaded me to do the same, but I found the snow bad, but was rewarded for my efforts by the sight of a little mouse running through the snow, miles from anywhere.
Before we set out we asked the time of lunch and were told 2.30. We looked disappointed so the man said he'd see if we could have it earlier, and came back to say that ours would be ready for 1 o'clock. We felt that we must be back for this, just as other people were setting out for their morning's skiing. At 1 o'clock thee was no sign of our lunch, we had to kick our heels until 2.30. The bar had a thatched roof and fairy lights and such a pleasant attendant; we told him we'd been skiing and wanted something long and cold to drink and left it to him. There was orange and lemon juice and sugar, and a faint smell of aniseed, in our tumblers, but I'm sure he must have filled up with neat gin – I didn't feel I was walking very straight when I eventually walked into the dining room.
The meal was worth waiting for, four or five things for the hors d'oeuvres, then fried egg, rice and meat sauce, a main dish of meat and chips, and finally fruit.
Eventually we set out to ski again, but the snow was deteriorating rapidly, Cecily had a short session on the skating rink, but we eventually met again at Nuria where Cecily had acquired a little Spaniard.
He took us to the chapel and, when we'd pulled our hoods over our heads, he took us into the dimly lit place and showed us the twelfth century carving of the virgin and child, which seems the whole point of the place – it seems a sanctuary, a place of pilgrimage for this. He took us round to the Hotel Nuria, and then to another restaurant where we drank white wine and ate nuts in front of the fire.
He could talk French and I soon found out that he was a climber. Apparently he is enthusiastic over artificial climbing; I was amazed at myself, on the strength of having been taken up one artificial route, I feel I can talk about banging in pegs with anyone! He asked what standard I climb, and while explaining that I usually climbed IIIs and IVs, I could say that I occasionally did the odd V or VI!
And so back to the Puigmal, another enormous dinner, and again early to bed.
Once more we were down to breakfast at about 9.30, after so much sleep that I felt I'd never really wake up again. There had been more snow in the night, the skating rink – their pride and joy – was covered and there was a little on the ski tracks, but the wind was from the south and warm, and the snow in bad condition, and I didn't enjoy my skiing. I had several trips back, up on the funicular, trying to find Cecily; I learned later that she'd walked up.
Eventually, it was time for lunch – we didn't precede it with a cocktail this time – I felt that the meals were a little unbalanced. Last time the second and third courses both contained carbohydrates, this time neither did. After the hors d'oeuvres there were two fried eggs and meat sauce, and then liver and onions. After all this I felt I needed to sleep it off, but forced myself out eventually by realising that I was having too much sleep, and that what I needed was exercise! I had a cold. I don't know whether that was what was really at the root of the matter.
The trouble was how to get exercise in this place – the gentle downhill skiing was no good. I suppose the answer was to get out our skis and go up, but I was reluctant to do this as there was a chairlift going up from the hotel, but it wasn't working – I wouldn't have minded going up from the top of this lift, but it seemed so pointless walking up where there was a lift.
I was very frustrated by having no map; I asked if they had one at the hotel, but no. I bought some postcards, but they put them on the bill, rather than they take my 1000 peseta note. "Is it good?" I was asked. I resented it, and, not being able to change it, it left me short of money for the funicular etc. No, I was not like the man with the million pound note, who lived on the glory of having such a thing!
I called at the hotel Nuria, and was able to get a map of sorts. I then came up in the funicular with the ski instructor who pointed out some of the mountains and said he'd take us out the next day.
We decided we'd been eating too much, so at dinner we had soup and spinach omelette, but cut out the chicken course and finished with fruit, and once more went early to bed.
The main party at the hotel were a Spanish football team, with lovely new ski boots, but, apparently, lacking in skis, for they infuriated Cecily by borrowing hers a couple of times.
Some more Swiss arrived, friends or attachments of our Genevese linguist, the outfit of one girl was too good to be true. Needless to say she never skied in it!
We decided to leave, but had to wait for the train at 4 o'clock. The ski instructor said he'd take us up the chair lift – and it was set in motion for us; it was very easy to use. Once up, I realised why in Spain, they had a chair lift instead of a tow – it was so that the dogs could get up and certainly they enjoyed the run down far more than I did.
I photographed the view on the way up and took another from the top – the view, that is, the same as from our bedroom window. I didn't take one of the sanctuary as it wasn't very bright in that direction. A lot of snow had gone in the last two days and we had to carry our skis over the rocks at first, and then we got to a couloir where the snow was in good condition, but after a couple of turns it was breakable crust and, although the instructor did a jump turn, all we could do were kick turns and so at last we reached Nuria after a wretched run.
After lunch we paid our bill – they had to take my 1,000 peseta note – too late I realised that they'd charged us more than the legal maximum – no, we hadn't found Spain at all cheap. I left my pack to go down by funicular and I had a last ski run. The Genevese Swiss seemed disappointed we were going; he said we could have come to a party they were having that night, down in the night club – a dive we hadn't seen, but we weren't very interested.
I reached Nuria in good time and thought I'd buy some postcards, but in addition I found a much more likely looking map. A little Padré type of person unlocked the door and served me. I started talking in French and he understood me perfectly, as I understood his Spanish – at first I thought he might know French, but it didn't seem to matter if I slipped in a few English words, and I came away with a good assortment of cards.
As we left Nuria the mist was down, it was rather gloomy, not at all the cheerful beautiful place it had seemed when we arrived. The colour had gone from the rocks on the way down and it was incredible how the snow had also gone.
There was one incredibly funny remark I thought.
| 1st Englishwoman: | It must be terribly expensive pumping water up to all these places in the mountains. | |
| 2nd Englishwoman (puzzled): | Pumping water up? | |
| 1st Englishwoman: | Yes we keep passing these little pumping stations, with the big black pipes going up!! |
There was no snow left at Ribas da Fresca and we left our luggage and went for a walk up the road – quite uninteresting. We got back in plenty of time for the train and waited in the buffet, drinking coffee. There was a lovely atmosphere here; yes, I much preferred the Spaniards to the Genevese. Realising that Cecily knew a few Spanish phrases, they encouraged her to use them. The dogs, the waiter and the soldiers were all very pleasant.
Eventually the train arrived, rather crowded, but we were helped with our luggage. We later found that our chief helper was an English speaking Spaniard – worked for Paramount films, and was on a business trip to Puigcerda.
We still hadn't made up our minds whether to give La Molina a try as a ski centre, but we sat on in the train when we reached it – everything was against it, the final straw being the heavy rain which was falling. Another thing against it was the fact that there were going to be some races the next day, so presumably the pistes would be closed to ordinary skiers, and then the Piugmal had given us the idea that Spain wasn't suited to winter sports, so we went on to Puigcerda.
Cecily had the name of the International as a suitable hotel and was trying to get instructions for reaching it, when our friend of Paramount films came to our rescue and said his taxi could go that way. We were mot grateful, for it was still raining.
Dinner was at the usual hour, but ended with the inevitable caramel custard, the only sweet they can make in these parts – but it's not surprising when their fresh fruit is so good.
We got up at about 8.30, but no-one else was about – eventually we got our breakfast, paid our bill – quite reasonable – left our luggage in the hall and decided to walk across the border to Bourg Madame to enquire about trains to Font Romeu, the nearest ski resort on the French side.
Cecily had asked at the station at Puigcerda the night before, but the man was most indignant; "no, of course he didn't know the times of the trains to Font Romeu. It is in France. No, of course he hadn't a French timetable" etc. etc. We had found that the bus to Andorra left at 12 o'clock, but it would have wasted a couple of days going there and it seemed to me that Cecily only wanted to go to shop, so I was against it. It would have been a different matter if we could have gone on skis.
After less than a mile, we approached the French frontier – an official outside the police station looked at our passports, handed them back and let us go on to the end of the road, where a wooden footbridge separated us from the promised land, as France was to become.
An official guarding the bridge took our passports, but soon handed them back, saying that we'd have to go back to the police station – we said that they'd let us pass, and we showed our visas, which were in order, but all to no purpose, we had to go back to the police station.
Here we were told that the police had gone out for 10 minutes; we must sit down and wait for them – why didn't they say that last time we were here? We waited and waited and nothing happened, so Cecily used all her Spanish and explained that we only wanted to enquire the time of the train and eventually we were provided with an escort, allowed to cross the bridge and went up to the French police office, a dingy place, about three storeys high, but how different they were from the Spanish officials – they obviously employed a far more intelligent type of man; they were rather amused by us and said that the Spanish police never arrive before 10 o'clock. Hearing French spoken seemed so like home, after hearing Spanish, that I couldn't have been more pleased had I heard English. I asked why it was so difficult to enter France, but they assured me there was no trouble in doing that, the difficulty was in leaving Spain.
We learned that there was a train just before 11 o'clock, so decided to hurry back, collect our things and try to catch it. We were soon at the International, where the girl phoned for a taxi and were making our way to the frontier.
At the police station the driver got out and had our passports stamped and then drove us up to the little footbridge. We removed our luggage, the taxi drove off, and then the official began to make himself heard again; we must go back to the police station. Cecily continued to ferry our things across the footbridge while I argued with the man, who didn't understand me, eventually there seemed nothing else for it. I took our passports back. The police seemed to expect them. They quickly changed January to February on the stamp and handed them back. I'm sure it was only done to see if the man by the bridge was on the alert. I was furious, but I don't suppose telling the Spaniard in English that he'd made us miss our train, did any good.
Back at the frontier I found that Cecily had engaged a taxi for the 100 yards or so to the station, but we couldn't get in it. Oh no, we had to go up to the French police station where, once more, our names were written in the large book, together with all our passport details in beautiful slow writing. At last we were free and entered the taxi, whose driver had said we'd lost the train, but I thought we'd see – little did I know! We were out of the town in no time and going in a northerly directly. Cecily and I looked at each other and didn't know what to do and then, coming towards us was a little orange coloured train. I pointed it out as our train and Cecily said it couldn't be, it was going in the wrong direction – I remembered the map and knew it came from Tours du Carol to Bourg Madame and then onto Odeillo for Font Romeu. I was furious, I knew that the taxi driver was trying to pull a fast one over us, and I was prepared to cut off my nose to spite my face to see that he didn't. I said I'd prefer to go back and wait for the 3 o'clock train, but Cecily said she was enjoyed her taxi drive and wanted to go on. We enquired the price and Cecily said that she'd pay the 2,000 fr. and so on we went.
I was a little worried at the lack of snow, just patches of it and everywhere was rather brown and depressing. We passed the Chaos of Carcasonne and then Cecily started talking to the taxi driver, just as though he were a good friend of ours! She said we wanted to stay at a nice little pension, could he recommend a place.
As we approached Font Romeu there was no mistaking the Grand Hotel on top of the hill, just like its photo and for the rest it seemed mostly composed of multi-coloured villas. At last, the taxi drew up at what we later discovered was the third largest hotel in the place. This was our nice little pension!
We went in and asked the proprietor his charges and he said 1,600 a day. We asked if we could have a room without food, but no. We had a double room and just had time to settle in before lunch. And what a lunch. Nuria hadn't much over this place for food.
We went to the office under the Casino to enquire about skiing. Although Mr. William seemed to be staying in our hotel, we learned that there was nothing doing in the afternoons, but we could join a class in the morning – we explained our standard exactly, not realising that there were only about two classes.
We waited for the 2.30 bus to the ski grounds; eventually it came and took us to La Poule au Pot via the Grand Hotel and l'Hermitage (the 1:30,000 map I'd bought didn't show this road at all, the French side wasn't much better than the Spanish for maps).
It was soon our turn for the ski lift and I watched how it was done – one put a little disc, 6 inches diameter between ones legs, and when one was ready, the man attached the thing to the moving wire above. I hung on with both hands, there was a jerk, and I was off. I began to relax, this was easy, I had nearly stopped, and then, when I suppose the springing was taken up from the attachment, there was an even greater jerk. After that I didn't dare relax again. On the way up I began to think that the lift must be an even greater strain than coming down. Half way up some men were digging out snow to the side of the tow – I couldn't see the point of this until we had some new snow, when I saw that it drifted between the walls of snow. I don't know why but the sight of me seemed to amuse these men!
Cecily and I tried the run once or twice; it was very gentle, even gave me the impression that I wasn't such a bad skier after all – after one schush there were some ridges which had to be crossed, on the snow or in the air. I didn't care for this part.
Later, Cecily and I tried to go on from the top of the lift – down a little way and then up towards the Roc de la Calme, but this time we only got as far as the little chalet, when we decided to turn back.
After dinner we adjourned to the little lounge and chatted to some of our fellow residents – there was the older lady who disappeared afterwards, and the younger girls with her, and then there was the man who 'sang well in English' as Cecily flattered him! – also several young couples with an offspring or so – just what you'd expect in a comfortable hotel!
There had been a little snow in the night, and there was a cold wind in the morning, with the result that the snow was being whipped up from the surface. There was one glorious view from the bus – contrejour – how I longed to photograph it. Later, on the ski slopes I had my camera ready, but usually the wind was too much of a good thing and everything would be covered.
We found that our class consisted mostly of children, with Mr. William as instructor – we ran down as far as the steep bank half way down, and then beat out a slope and tried uphill christies – I found the instruction quite good after nearly a week of trying on my own, when my one idea is to get down without falling. I could follow Mr. William's French perfectly – I suppose I'm so used to being told how to ski!
In the afternoon, we set out towards the Roc de la Calme again – what an afternoon for photography, I quite ran amok over colour film – there was everything, the trees had the new snow on them, the surface of the snow underfoot was quite good, but it was the clouds which got me, they were fascinating shapes, and there was the one which followed the sun around all the afternoon – the distant hills were in the sun, but I was in the shade, so I was able to try contrejour effects, although that is frowned upon with colour. The really fascinating thing was the rainbow colours around the edge of the cloud over the sun; I could only see them with my goggles on, so I had no idea whether they'd come out in my film. Later when I saw my results I found that thanks to underexposing, the colours were visible. I had taken the retina camera out this afternoon and found later that everything is too blue, as I had no U.V. filter in it. Also the shutter is probably more accurate than in the finetta, and hence the under exposure. My meter gave readings such 1/100 sec of f16 and f22, I couldn't bring myself to give less than f11. I should have known that that was far too little.
I remember thinking that if I could only recapture ¼ pf the atmosphere there had been that morning and afternoon, I should be a famous photographer. Needless to say I didn't recapture even this percentage.
From Font Romeu, I had looked south, over to the mountains and thought what a pity we're so far away from the Pyrenees, so I was amazed to look over from the summit of the Roc and find that there were beautiful blue snow mountains to the north – it made Font Romeu even more tantalising to have mountains all round, which it was impossible to reach.
The snow was good and we had a pleasant run down and back to Font Romeu, where there was a glorious sunset – but I had no film left.
The snow was much softer. The lesson was similar to the previous day, except the personnel of the class had changed for the worse – Mr. William used to get Cecily and me to do steeper runs than the others.
For lunch they rather let themselves go. After the usual hors d'oeuvres, there was a Spanish dish – a bowl of rice and other unidentifiable vegetables and pieces of meat etc., and also in it were mussels in their shells, and crayfish-like creatures. The main course was meat, mushrooms and chicory, and then came the choice of about six varieties of cheese, and finally fruit and biscuits.
In the afternoon the run became quite tedious, it was so slow (it was at a very gentle angle in any case), but we could have afternoon tea in the bedroom and look forward to dinner – a thickish soup, ham and little peas, and then veal, mushrooms and endive, and after the cheese, was our old friend from Spain, Crême Caramel and biscuits.
We were learning to cope with the food. We just picked at each dish, which grieved me, but it was all we could do.
Cecily had decided that this place suited her, and that she couldn't be bothered to move again, but she also decided that it was too frustrating for me. I said that I was willing to stay until Tuesday, when the man from the bank called, but Cecily said that she'd borrow from the hotel keeper for me, and I could leave the next day. We went down to the station in the afternoon, where the man couldn't have been more helpful. I could get to Superbagnère in one day, but I preferred to leave in the late afternoon, spend a night on the journey and arrive in good time the next morning.
He looked everything out for us and then we started our 2 mile walk back, in the dark, in the deteriorating weather. At first we thought there was a fire at Font Romeu, but then we realised that it was the neon lighting outside one of the hotels. There was a thunderstorm that evening and much new snow fell in the night.
I was out with my camera in good time, for everything was deep in new snow, every fir tree was laden, and now the sun was shining. I had packed my rucksack and left it in the garage, so that I should be able to leave without any fuss. Cecily had already broken the news that I was going. We caught the usual bus up to the ski grounds, but everything was different this day, there were crowds of people arrived for the weekend and every hoist in sight was working. It was lovely to go up fairly early and make fresh tracks in the new powder snow – we learned that the lift on the other side of Galinera (north) was working – what a lovely schush I had down the first part of this run, making my own tracks in the virgin snow, but then we came to an impasse – the direct way was fenced off – and the way to the left was being stamped out for a slalom – I thought I'd wait until the way was clear, and went up for several little runs, but the way didn't seem to be clearing, so I started down through the trees, only to be told the piste was closed, so I went over to the direct way which had tree routes etc. under the powder snow. Eventually, I was down to the ski-lift, and gave in my ticket for the ride up. The man started fussing over me, telling me to be sure to hang on with both hands, and I rather obviously resented his fussing, for I had learned to be quite at home on the usual lift and this was the same model. I thought I bet Cecily has been on it before me and has come off; fancy thinking that I have no more sense, and I started up it trying to look very nonchalant. I started and then came the second jerk which tore the seat out from between my legs. I thought I can't go back to him now, I shall have to hang on as I am, at least until I'm out of sight, for I couldn't pull myself back onto it, but the man had seen it all and stopped the lift (there was no-one else in sight) and told me to come down, all he said was that I'd never have made it to the top like that, and a little more humbly I got on the lift, and eventually reached the top.
I spent some time trying to photograph the beautiful, laden trees, with the mountains behind, and had another run down the same track, and then met Cecily who showed me an easier run through the woods. It avoided the steep part, and eventually we returned down the usual track to La Poule au Pot – well packed by this time – and so back to Font Romeu, where I picked up my pack and said 'goodbye' to Cecily – I couldn't face the hotel keeper and got Cecily to say goodbye to him for me. She said that he could quite understand my wanting to leave. What he couldn't understand was that I should want to leave before lunch!
I set off for Odeillo, and tried to ski part way, but this wasn't very successful, as there was no foundation beneath the soft snow. Also my heavy pack complicated things (I had never had any intention of carrying it).
At Odeillo, I determined to buy some provisions (I thought it might be a little cheaper than Font Romeu). I asked outside the pub, and was directed back to the 'epicerie' – I bought a pound of apples and two bananas, and then the man started working out the bill, he put down say '50' and then started doing complicated sums; I thought at first that he was putting on a service charge, but no, it was getting too complicated for that, eventually I realised that it was to work out the exact cost of my two bananas, and the whole bill only came to about '60'. The apples were green, and not at all like the red ones on the hotel table, but their flavour was delicious. I next asked for the bakers' and was directed up, by the side of the red door; I looked around and could see no boulangère, so I asked my old informants outside the 'pub' and they directed me up the lane by the side of the red door. I went a long way up the lane and no sign of a shop, but eventually I saw a woman just going into a gate, and she directed me down again, and there was some mention of a glass door, so this time I tried the door of what I had thought was a modern villa with drawn curtains. Inside, I found that it was a butchers shop, and then I recognised the curtains, they were of butchers apron material, but instead of the even orthodox blue and white stripes, they were of lovely shades of purple. I closed the door and tried to pretend I'd never touched it, but a girl came out – someone else to ask about the baker, and she directed me up the lane again. I explained that I'd been all up it, so she said she'd wait and tell me when I'd gone far enough and the word came when I was outside a small farm yard, but going in I found the door with the large sheet of glass and was able to purchase a loaf.
I had other provisions with me, and so continued down the road to the station, where I was pleased to find a bright orange carriage standing, for my photograph. The weather was deteriorating so it seemed quite a good time for moving on. There was about an hour to spare for the train, so I ate bread and butter and banana, as well as nuts and raisins and chocolate.
It was a lovely ride to Tours du Carol, the line winding this way and that, and crossing deep gorges. Looking towards the frontier from Font Romeu the ground looked rather flat, but in reality it was cut by ravines. I looked out with interest at Bourg Madame, and then we were travelling northward to Tours du Carol, where I left the little orange carriage and entered the orthodox one of dirty green, which took me to Toulouse.
I realised that, by spending the night at the station and having modest needs I could save the cost of the railway journey, and resolved to do this. At the buffet I contented myself with soup and omelette, although one of their meals looked quite reasonable, and vin rouge was included in the cost.
I was able to lie along a seat fairly well, and doze, until about 5 o'clock when I went along to the buffet for coffee and rolls, before catching the 5.20 to Montrejean where I changed and had time for a second breakfast before my connection came along. I couldn't find the buffet at Montrejean at first, but it was soon pointed out to me. I found everyone so helpful and so many people understood my attempts at the language – and I had grown to really love the French trains – which was as well, I suppose.
I thought there was both a road and railway up to Superbagnère and I asked which was best and was advised to take the railway at Luchon. I asked about the train and was shown into a miniature bus, which surprised me, but it only took me to the station of the rack railway, where I found I had about an hour to wait for the 10 o'clock train. This gave me time to buy oranges, a map and postcards, for I realised that once I was up at Superbagnère my shopping would be rather limited. It was quite a thrilling ride up, firstly throught the trees, and then up to the snow level and finally above the woods through the skiing grounds, but by this time I was beginning to feel a little drowsy and was looking forward to some exercise in the fresh air.
At the terminus I looked around. There was no mistaking the Grand Hotel, of course at £2/11s/6d a day it was quite cheap compared with its namesake at Font Romeu, but it held no attractions for me. The other side of the station was a little wooden building which called itself a skiers chalet – it reminded me of a hut and the sight of it made me feel quite at home. Naturally I went first to the wrong door, but in time I was shown upstairs to a room, complete with hot and cold, and an electric fire. Downstairs I started to enquire about the price and learned that it was 1500 fr. a day. I said that it was a question of money how long I could stay, and how much would it be for dinner, bed and breakfast only. I then felt that everyone was being sorry for me and I heard someone prompt behind me with "mille francs" and I accepted this. I wonder how one strikes the happy medium; either I feel that I'm being 'done' or else I feel that people are sorry for me. Either one infuriates me.
I collected a little of my food, and my skis and went up to the indicator, on the plateau to have a look round, but to my disgust the tops of the mountains were already in mist (and this had started as such a cloudless perfect day) and the mist gradually crept down so that I could identify nothing and then it reached the plateau so that there wasn't even any visibility for skiing.
I had already located the ski school office and called in there hoping to join a class for the afternoon, and learned that there was no school, for there weren't enough pupils to make it worthwhile. I imagine that all the classes I had seen on the slopes that morning had come up from Luchon, complete with instructors. This was a real blow and I explained about the tickets which I had bought in Font Romeu and been told I could use anywhere in France. All they could suggest was that I used them on private lessons – two for a one hour session, and a M. La Forgne would take me, so I said that I'd wait until the mist had cleared before I had such an expensive lesson.
At tea time the little chalet was crowded with people awaiting the last train down, but then I found that a couple of family parties were practically the only other residents. I was put at a table to myself. The food was practically up to the standard of the 'Regina' at Font Romeu, and the ¼ litre of wine supplied was about the right amount to drink with it.
The mist was still down but I felt that it would clear at any moment, that blue sky was only a few hundred feet up, so I was afraid to venture far from the plateau as I wanted to photograph the phenomenon of the mist clearing. I solved the problem of where to eat mid-day for I locked myself in my bedroom and put on the little spirit stove and enjoyed my English type tea, and I opened a tin of sardines to have with my bread, which was keeping remarkably well for French bread.
In the afternoon I felt my skiing was improving, for, tiring of the plateau, I tried the left hand (southern) run. The mist was thicker than ever, but I hardly fell, despite the fact that I was usually running in new snow.
Luck seemed all against me, for once more visibility was nil, the mist was thicker than ever, but I realised that I must get in some skiing, so I went down the steeper run, doing 'real christies' so I thought, in the French way. It was alright at first, but then it got steeper and more gloomy among the trees. There was a cheery man at the ski lift – it was similar to those at Font Romeu, but the supports were connected at the top by chains, so I said I wasn't used to them; the man told me it was easy and gave me a good push off and I relaxed, and then, I don't know why, I was pulled onto the ground, still clutching the rod in my hand, until I thought to let it go. I had no trouble the next time.
The man at the other lift amused me. For days I'd been getting along on my pidgin French, and had forgotten I didn't sound the least bit like a French woman, until he reminded me, when I complained about the mist he said, "You shouldn't mind, you're used to it". This side there was the best of lifts – there were two wires and the supports were attached at two places and there was no jerk at all.
At about 11 o'clock, I was keeping watch on the plateau, for this time the mist really was clearing and I was up by the indicator to take the first views of the hotel and also of the Pic du Céciné, the nearest peak. Soon the mist settled down and formed a level sea about 500 ft below me and stayed there all day.
I called in at the ski school to fix up for my lesson that afternoon and then had my usual lunch in my bedroom, complete with English tea.
M. Laforgne wasn't at all the sort of man I expected; he was so gentle, perhaps he didn't bully me enough. He asked me what I could do, and modestly I thought I'd better not mention the christies I had taught myself and said that in Austria I had done stem christies, so he said I should do them for him, but first of all I was to run in front of him down to the 'windmill' as I always thought of the top of the super ski lift – I was terrified of falling, but I just managed to make this run and, I expect, told M. Laforgne all he needed to know. I must bend my ankles he said! Then we started stem christying down the slope to the right – at Superbagnère there is no hard work such as walking back up a nursery slope, one simply continues down until one is at the bottom and then comes up by tow. M. Laforgne was soon shaking his head. I must bend my knees more, and until I do better stem christies I should never be able to do a pure christy (how glad I was that I had never mentioned my pure christies). He seemed to realise my inability to stem and tried to get me to do a pure stem turn (I've never been able to) and tried to get me to stem on places where I should have side-slipped. This amused me for I thought France was the place where they wouldn't let you stem, and here I was doing more than I had ever done before! I got worse and worse and to make it more difficult, as the slope steepened, we got down into the mist "Turn round the bumps" my tormentor would say, "I might be able to try it if I could see them" I replied, and as a final difficulty, he seemed to expect me to turn on bare patches occasionally. Lower down on a flatter part, it was easier to follow him than when I had been on my own. I was glad I had got used to this lift so that I could go up without any trouble, and at the top we were in the sunshine again. I followed some others too closely and, as always, my skis were too fast and I got into the rough, trying to overtake and fell, and was told that I should have put one ski in front of the other to give me a longer base and greater stability on such an occasion. This was the end of my lesson. It had been quite a generous hour.
I hurried in for my camera, for there had been lovely effects just inside the mist, looking up towards the sun, through the laden trees, but it was too late by the time I got down to the trees, and it looked as though the mist was creeping up.
Mid-day the lady from the Chalet had come up to tell me that my friend, another 'Anglais' had arrived. I immediately thought of Cecily and asked if she was dressed in blue, and if she spoke better French than I did, and on hearing yes to both these questions I hurried in and got the girl to show me to her room and nearly bounced in, only to see a complete stranger – I explained that I thought she was my friend, and then told her that we were the only ones who spoke English, to which she replied that she was Canadian. I then hurried out to my lesson.
That evening I noticed that Margaret was set at a different table, but she soon moved over to me. I learned that she had come for a year on an exchange, and all she had to do was talk for about 11 hours a week, simply telling the children about Canada. She asked me a little about the Commonwealth, but I was as ignorant as she was.
Naturally her French was good, and she was used to chattering in it, so I gained most from our acquaintanceship, in fact I've hardly ever chatted to anyone as much as I did to that girl; certainly I've never talked so much to a complete stranger. The ¼ litre of wine wasn't enough for Margaret, she was soon ordering more. She had certainly taken to the French way of life, although she said in Canada milk was the staple drink with meals.
Margaret agreed to share my lesson, which was to be at 10 a.m. Margaret had skied previously for two Sundays, so we weren't particularly well matched, but I thought it would be much more fun to have company. This time M. Laforgne said that we were to go down the sunny southern run; it was a glorious day and the mist had cleared right away. The day before I had been frantically snapping all the hills with the mist below. Now I had to re-take them with the valleys on view, for the valleys were just as fascinating as the mist had been.
I thought Margaret did marvellously, of course she couldn't side-slip, but she happily stemmed whenever she wanted to go a little slower, and at the end of the traverses would do stem turns, far better than I could do pure stems. At one time I was told I wasn't trying, and he even told me that I couldn't even walk well, because I was too stiff! We went down to the bottom of the second tow, and then Margaret had a rest, while I had a second run on the lower part. Finally I felt I had been promoted to pure stems for I was told to try to do them, but by this time, I had been made so stem-minded that I couldn't! – he kept telling me to lift the inside foot on the turn.
Margaret and I then had a number of runs on the lower part. We were sharing tickets and the little man on the tow wouldn't take any from Margaret – it was a great help!
Back at the Chalet, Margaret met a couple of friends, with whom she had skied the previous day, and they had soon bought us drinks and then we all sat down at the same table for lunch. Margaret didn't get very far with the food, and she was rather scathing about the French habit of taking 'eating' too seriously. She said that England had made great sacrifices since the war and had rebuilt their economy (she hadn't been to England), but France, all they did was sit back and live on Marshall Aid, and all they did was eat! I wish I could have understood more of the conversation, Margaret would keep translating, but with the doubtful stories, she'd get so far and then say that the rest simply didn't go into English.
We had wine and then more wine, and more, and eventually we tried to stand up. We realised that skiing would have been out of the question for a little while, so we staggered out to the Grand Hotel, and sat on the terrace for coffee. I was very pleased to be visiting this hotel, for almost all the money I had was a 10,000 fr. note and, after pleading poverty at the chalet, I didn't like to produce it there; by paying for the coffee I changed my note and paid off my debt for my aperitif.
By about 4 o'clock we thought we'd recovered enough to try to ski again, and started down the right hand route, but I fell much more than usual. I'd find myself throwing myself round; no, alcohol isn't a good preparation for skiing. This run was a great trial for Margaret, having to stem all the way, so, once we were down and up the lift, we tried our favourite again, and the little man still wouldn't take tickets from Margaret.
Margaret caught the evening train with her two friends; she hoped to get her own back on them in the skating rink at Luchon; they couldn't skate, and I gather she could, but I learned later that the rink was closed because it wasn't frozen. Margaret had to leave early the next morning to return to her occupation (I can't call it work).
I meant to make the most of my last morning's skiing, but the weather didn't play up. I was glad I had had a last look at the district the evening before, when I had gone for a walk to the indicator with two of the ladies from the Chalet. It was a perfect evening, and I used up the last of my colour film on the sunset.
The hills to the north had gradually taken on a warmish tinge and had an almost Cairngormish look about them, but it was the peaks towards the Spanish frontier which had the last of the glow on them. Eventually I photographed the ladies and dogs – a little Scotty called Sammy seemed the favourite – there seemed nearly as many dogs here as on the Spanish side.
I had a few last runs down the left hand run, but it was cold, and I had to pay each time, eventually the man asked me where my friend was. I took my skis into M. Laforgne's shop. He had promised to move my bindings for me, but really I was curious to see in the shop as I had been hearing about him the previous evening. He had skied at world championships and had met his wife in Sweden at one of them, where she was skiing for her country; their shop was full of cups and certificates. I had noticed that he was a beautiful skier, but he hadn't seemed to me to have the temperament of a champion, he was too patient! If he explained something and I didn't understand, I think with a lot of people I'd have pretended to understand, to prevent myself being inundated with a torrent of French, but with Mr. Laforgne, if I admitted that I hadn't understood, he'd stop, think and then explain it again in even simpler words.
Eventually the mist came down and it started to snow, so I retreated to my room. I had packed before breakfast, but had left my rucksack in my room, so I was able to lock myself in and make myself a last cup of tea, before parcelling up my skis, paying a modest bill, and catching the train at about 3 o'clock.
At Luchon, it was overcast, and almost drizzling; I walked to the main railway station and started studying the time tables until an official came along to help me. I had hoped that there would be time in Toulouse for a meal, but I found that there was only 20 minutes and there was no restaurant car on the Paris train, nor was there really time at Montrejean, so I pinned all my hopes on the train from Montrejean to Toulouse, which was supposed to have a buffet car – but I wasn't sure that it would provide a full meal.
It had been boring at Luchon, waiting for the train, although I had bought myself a few bananas for the journey. At Montrejean it was boring and cold as well, although I had a coffee at the buffet, but eventually my train arrived, and it had white tablecloths in the buffet car, so, hopefully, I entered, to be asked at once what I was drinking. Very disappointed, I said I didn't want to drink I wanted to eat, "Yes, yes, but what do you want to drink with it" was how I translated what the man said in a patient voice, and I found myself repeating that I didn't want to drink, although by this time I had developed such a taste for red wine with French food, that I knew I shouldn't really enjoy it without. Later I got hold of a wine list and saw that it was possible to order wine by the glass, but it was too late by then.
The meal was poor compared to those I was used to, but I was glad to have a last real feed.
I arrived in Paris about 7 o'clock and again caught the inter-station bus, but this time I was just an ordinary passenger, not one to be especially looked after, as I had felt I was on the outward trip. At the Gare St. Lazare I had my usual unsatisfactory breakfast. I tried coffee and I tried chocolate and I ate a croissant, but didn't really enjoy it and was glad when I could get onto the 10 o'clock train and soon after mid-day I was in Dieppe and boarding the "Liseau", the new French boat, and putting my watch back an hour. I went down for second lunch (trying to get used to English hours) and this time I saw the wine list, but they hadn't less than a ½ bottle which was too much, so again my French meal was spoilt. The food was excellent; I remembered the instructions of the waiter of the "Brighton", that I should be glad of an English meal – I was glad to put it off for a little while.
It had been raining in Paris and was drizzling at Dieppe, but as we got out of French territorial waters, we got into the sunshine, and had a lovely crossing, and I'd stand on the deck until I'd want to go below for a warm. I remember at one point having a longish conversation on deck with a pleasant Greek who was joining his ship in England and spoke perfect English.
The customs were no trouble and I think I was home before 5 o'clock.