Lundy
A seasick September Saturday, and a wet Sunday in Lundy.
It was Saturday 25 September. The MS Oldenburg rolled, shuddered in the Atlantic
swell, and then rolled some more. The whole ship groaned. Our young friend lay
ill in the scuppers, rolled, rolled some more and groaned. Obviously the seasick
tablets had not reached the parts that count. The rest of the party felt little
better, and - with one heroic exception - showed no sympathy.
Ahead of us lay four days' climbing on Lundy, along with accommodation in the
old lighthouse (for some) and the nighttime temptations of the Marisco Tavern.
If we got ourselves organised, we could do a route that afternoon. What should
it be?
Someone believed the best-known feature of the island, The Devil's Slide, should
be saved for a full day. But wiser and more prophetic heads said the dry weather
might not last. The Devil's Slide it was to be. Finding the Slide from the top
(the only way unless you are a shark, seal or puffin) is difficult, or so Richard
alleged, as he led the party back up from another wrong zawn. Finally the ab
rope was uncoiled, deployed and there we were: six of us at the foot of the
Slide - low tide fortunately, so the waves only threatened to soak us.
Looking up the Devil's Slide
We had the place to ourselves. Above, stretched a 400 feet slab of dry barren
granite, the only discernible feature a horizontal break half way up. Routes
were allocated with the usual modesty, restraint and consideration for others.
Unselfishly Dan would lead Jude - on her first multi-pitch climb - up the right
hand side, the Devil's Slide route itself, and to quote the guidebook "the classic
climb of Lundy". Gavin and Johnny would take Albion, a route on the left side
of the slab, "perhaps the best of its grade on the island". The father-and-son
team of Richard and Marcus, also with characteristic compliance, accepted the
route up the middle of the Slide. This was Satan's Slip, "the magnificent central
diretissima, one of the finest of its grade in the south-west". Oh, alright
then. The three parties advanced up the slab. Satan's Slip offers little hope
of protection and even less by way of reward: "a lonely lead". With little to
delay them, Richard and Marcus topped out first; they sat on the headwall shouting
down at the others, with abuse and similar helpful advice. When Gavin reached
the rusty peg on the crux of Albion, he found it was rattling around in the
crack. So he had to climb the pitch properly, poor darling. Meanwhile Dan was
escorting a delighted Jude across the final challenge of the Devil's Slide:
the headwall traverse, a line pioneered by the goats that inspired the first
human ascensionist, Admiral Lawder.
The weather broke that night. On Sunday and Monday it rained again. Shorter
routes were climbed, but more was achieved (consumed? Ed.) inside the Marisco
Tavern than outside it. Tuesday morning saw Gavin and Marcus setting off hopefully
for an encounter with American Beauty: not the movie, but "an elegant classic
and the most seductive line hereabouts" or, in plain language, 300 feet of granite
sea-cliff. Access was known to be awkward, so they shrewdly improved their chances
of finding it by leaving Richard behind. Alas, even this precaution was in vain:
word spread quickly through the island that the MS Oldenburg was obliged by
rapidly worsening weather to sail that day, one day early, and not return for
many more. Our young adventurers had to return to the lighthouse, pack their
bags, and head for the jetty.
Such is the lottery of a stay on Lundy. But as a shared experience - three adjacent
three-star routes on a unique landform, climbed simultaneously by friends - the
memory of that Saturday afternoon will endure for quite a while.
Richard McLaughlin