Salt on the Breeze
The team aboard the boat. From L - R: Me (England), Gasper (Slovenia), Duncan (Scotland), Christelle (France), Sebastjan (Slovenia), Lara (France), and Val (France).
Angus’s catamaran pitched and tumbled through the Atlantic, my white knuckles gripping the railing. Waves smacked against the hull and I smelt salt on the breeze. Filling my lungs, I grinned madly and shouted “boom!” To everything.
Golden spotlights shone through speckled clouds, illuminating the Scottish islands. This was the edge of our map. There was a wildness to the Outer Hebrides, these lumps of rock and grass poking their heads out of the sea. Which one was to be our new home?
Pabbay’s desert island beach came into view, pulsing with life. “Look!” Our small team of climbers gawped. Slug-like seals flopped on the shore, gannets hunted and dived, razorbills, puffins, cormorants and shags all swarmed like a chaotic family. Angus slowed the boat as surf chucked against the shore. “Was that a cormorant or a shag?” It certainly wasn’t a tit.
Shuttling our bags onto Pabbay’s midnight-black rocks, we joined its frenzied energy. Soon, there was salt in my shoes from an eager wave, and sand between my fingers. Walking barefoot on the beach, we traced the first steps. Heather and grasses gave a bucolic profile to the island, whilst a stone house with no roof the only evidence of previous life. Waving goodbye to Angus, we happily became castaways.
Our team consisted of Lara, Val and Christelle from France, Gašper and Sebastjan from Slovenia, Duncan from Scotland, and me from England. Our journeys to this point had taken many days. I’d spent the previous month alpine climbing in Alaska, camping on a frigid glacier. After one night at home, Christelle and I travelled to Scotland. These uninhabited islands are silent witnesses to the breakers booming in from the deep; they felt almost as isolated as Alaska.
For us, Pabbay and its neighbour Mingulay are worth the travel for their cliffs. One hundred metres of Lewisian gneiss rise straight from the sea; a climb-‘til-you-can’t paradise! Jugs are as big as buckets. Cracks eat up gear - because routes are protected ‘traditionally’ by wires and cams. The rocks, some of the oldest in the world, have been attracting climbers for over 30 years.
I think British trad climbing is bloody brilliant. The effort is rewarding, the landscapes beautiful, the consequences real. However, there’s always a ‘but’ in the UK. It’s incredible, but it could be the faff (three pitches of grassy choss for one of good rock); the weather (a bit shite); the tides (swallowing the climb); the midges (‘wee bastards!’), or the bird and military bans (from March to August). And yet… despite moving to France, I’m always eager to return to the UK. I suspected - hoped - my European friends would also see the magic of our climbing.
***
On our first morning, we woke to drizzle and low cloud: excellent. How disgustingly typical. I pretended not to see the looks on the Slovenian’s faces, which said, ‘what the hell, we’ve come all the way… for this?’ We tried to have a slow start, but after two coffees we charged up the hill, into the mist, cursing the bogs. ‘Over-stoke’ didn’t even come close in describing our first-day-fever to climb.
Soon we were all down by the sea, uncoiling our ropes on the briny slabs… with the sun even attempting to appear. “What is this ‘E1’?” Our international team queried. “You’ll be fine,” I said, handing them a triple set of wires - although somehow the grade doesn’t really translate to ‘French 6a.’ The waves licked their lips, anticipating a rope or at least a wire, but we gripped everything like our lives depended on it. “When you get good wires, they’re like bolts!” Sebastjan said. “What is E9 then? You only get one wire?”
“Not exactly, but it’s best not to fall,” I replied.
Slithering down the abseil rope again and again, we climbed until our forearms burned. Even the gulls changed their mocking cries of ‘hahaha!’ To a friendlier ‘akakak.’ By evening, our group was (probably) convinced that British trad climbing is the best in the world.
Days drifted by, interspersed by brief summer darkness. Island life, island time. As our confidence grew, the cliffs became steeper and higher.
The Bonxie (E6 6b) was a stereotypical route: steep, pumpy but well-protected climbing. After thirty metres, the jugs ran out and the crux headwall reared. Arranging a nest of bomber gear (‘just one more for good luck,’) I shook out on salt-crystallised jugs. Grasping beautifully-carved gneiss striped with pegmatite, I set sail onto the headwall…
…At the belay, as Christelle ran up the pitch, I glanced out to see. Shocked, we waved to a basking shark the size of a bus which did two turns of the bay below. “Woahhh!” I said, stunned beyond intelligent comment. For the rest of the day I gaped and gawped with an open mouth, pretending I was the shark which drank in the sea.
I was impressed at how quickly our team adapted to trad climbing. Christelle cruised the beautiful castle wall of Sugar Cane Country (E4 6a) on her second go; it usually takes years for us Brits to build up to this level and have confidence in our protection. After checking the gear, she went for it, looking solid on the weathered crimps and giving a “woohoo!” At the top. I was proud and impressed, the route well within her abilities.
Lara and Val also adapted to the traditional routes well, quickly headpointing an E4. Gašper and Sebastjan quested onto long adventurous routes, despite joking that they still didn’t understand the grades. And as Duncan climbed an E3, we struggled to convert it to a French sport grade. The beauty of British trad climbing is that it’s so much more than its (cryptic) grade. However, you’ll soon understand what a run-out ‘only E2’ pitch means when you’re desperately fiddling in wires, hanging from a poor crimp. And we prize our British ethics: the onsight is king.
I suspect that the average European climber has a higher onsight level than their British counterpart. This is because the safety of bolted climbs (which are the most common on the continent) removes much of the danger and stress of falling. In turn, you can try harder and more often, thus developing a higher grade.
But by relying on the protection which you place, trad routes add an extra mental and physical challenge - and only chalk remains. It also prepares you well for alpine routes.
In theory, it’s easy for Europeans to transfer their sport fitness to British trad, but in reality it can be very difficult and stressful. I was pleased - but also a little nervous - to see my international friends launch up the crags. “Are you sure that’s a good wire? Can you put another two in?” I quizzed. Thankfully they were patient with my unwanted or unwarranted advice.
***
Of course, it wouldn’t be Scotland without rain. Too often, the sun gave up its fight with the clouds, grey seas frothed, and rain smudged the horizon. “Not again! Quick, finish the pitch,” and we’d attempt the impossible: to trad climb quickly.
Some days the sky poured like it was crying, but at least it kept the wee bastard midges at bay. Bogs bulged and streams swelled; life was not always staring care-free into the horizon, a freshly-painted sky blending into a blueberry sea. Sheltering from the storms in our base camp teepee, fat rings of black pudding and baked beans spat in the frying pan - with a sprinkling of salt. When we ran out of books to read, we turned to the guidebook. “What’s a buttress - a female butt?” Gašper’s eyes twinkled.
***
Our journey continued from Pabbay to Mingulay, Angus’s boat arriving one afternoon. A few days at Dun Mingulay and The Boulevard kept us entertained between heavy rain and frightening swells. Many crags were seeping and, considering much of Scotland is a bog, it was unsurprising that they stayed wet for the rest of our stay. We found shelter in tranquil geos, sharing the same idea with curious seals and puffins. Beyond the bay, waves tinted from the depths ruffled in the gusts.
There were a dozen dilapidated stone houses near our campsite, abandoned over a hundred years ago when island life became too desperate. Grassy fingers and hungry sand dunes were slowly entombing the stones again, nature reclaiming her catch. We strolled amongst them but our minds were always on the cliffs.
***
All good desert island stories end with a return to civilisation. Eventually, Angus appeared one evening to take us home. Had we spent a fortnight or a month on these islands? Aboard, we thundered through the mist towards Barra, spray coursing from the boat, rescued weather-beaten adventurers (or so we thought). My hair, shoes, and clothes were all filled with sand, hitchhikers reappearing as souvenirs for the next month.
The smell of salt was now rooted within us; for a brief moment we’d become a part of these islands. Although we’d soon be giddily lining up pints of Guinness in Barra’s pub, for now we all still gazed longingly towards Pabbay and Mingulay. I was sure my friends also had special trad climbing memories crystallising in their minds, with salt on the breeze.
Pabbay and Mingulay, May 2024. Thanks to everyone for making it a memorable trip.
Click on the images to enlarge.
