CHALK
My first visit to 'the chalk' wasn't particularly memorable in terms of
climbing. We only managed a brief bit of bouldering at Saltdean but it
was the only time I've been ogled by passing members of the public
more than my female climbing partner. Not that that should be a reflection
on Kath who usually turned heads at every other crag we visited but more
due to the kind of audience that was attracted to the nearby nude
sunbathing beach that was so popular with Brighton's gay community.
My second visit was a little more substantial when Chris Cubitt and I
repeated The Great White Fright over a couple of days. This three pitch
prow wouldn't have been most folk's choice as their first route on chalk but
I'd been seduced by the stunning shots of Phil Thornhill on the final pitch.
The constant patter of raining chalk fragments was only interrupted by the
thunder of larger sections of the cliff tumbling into the Channel, my
whimpers as loc-tite cramps played havoc with my wilting swing and
Chris's unique celebration (enough to make those Saltdean sunbather's
blush) as we finally hauled ourselves over the top. All in all not very pretty!
Chalk is like all proper adventures whose true value needs at least a few
weeks to mature. Once the terror subsides, the one or two 'good moments'
shine through in a rose-tinted haze blocking the numerous darker times and
eventually the sheer relief of survival is replaced by a nagging urge to return.
And I guess that is how I found myself once again making the six hour drive
south with my axes one winter's day instead of north to Scotland.
I'd also brought along a couple of lemmings... oh er... accomplices, in the
shape of Jon Winter and Paul Winder. Somehow they'd been persuaded that
whilst chalk might not look normal it offered a classic British day out that
all 'proper' climbers should experience at least once in their lifetime. Where
exactly this classic was going to be found along the four miles of tottering
choss at Dover I wasn't sure.
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