| The Wainstones When we loop ropes over our shoulders and our sacks are filled with rock shoes, shining gear and bottles of water, late sunlight makes us lower our eyes to the braided track. Up a height now, we are leaning into the breeze. Ahead, square pinnacles rise just above the turf, unlikely, magnetic, drawing us away from work into our other world among the crags. Our busy day is insignificant now. We have adrenalin, space, and just for now, a precious hour or two before the sun drops and the rock chills. The sandy track descends to the foot, where dramas are revealed. As though sliced apart, articulated blocks shout silently to our itching toes and fingers from a skyline out of fiction. Then a rustle of harnesses, helmets, and, rescued from between boots, a squidge of jam sandwich, eaten while laces are tightened for battle and smart crabs rattle. We can scarcely contain our joy. The air is clear to the bright fields on the plain, limpid as only autumn evenings make it. To the south, a glimpse of Bilsdale's softness before shadows grow long. First, Wall and Ledge, a warm-up climb whose holds we have by heart, then a solo up The Slab Climb, before roping up for a few Severes then a wander to Sheep Walk, and a discussion about Humpty Dumpty, a short fat buttress. With no wish to frighten ourselves, we bumble on to other favourites, then sit on top, draw long satisfying breaths from the Moors. |
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