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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