The Old Man of Hoy is the tallest sea stack in the British Isles but it started life as a promontory, a sheer band of red cliffs jutting out into the fierce tides of the Pentland Firth. Over time the sucking waves and wind hollowed out a tunnel in the sandstone that slowly expanded into a vast arch and then collapsed, leaving behind a slender tower, like a 400-foot needle, rising from the wild North Atlantic. It survives, for now, because it rests on a plinth of harder rock, a slender finger beckoning every climber who ever saw it. But in the wind you can feel it swaying, reminding you that nothing is for ever.
The Old Man was made for theatre. The clifftop opposite forms a perfect dress circle for an audience and the jumbled rocky isthmus that once linked it to the mainland are the uncomfortable stalls. Making my way down to the bottom, gingerly following a narrow twisting path slippery with wet grass, I was acutely aware of the dizzying space below my feet. The first time I came this way was almost half a century ago. Then I was thirty-two years of age, arguably in my prime. Now I was eighty, and every step was a struggle. Drizzle had been falling from the grey sky. Not for the first time in my life, I wondered what I was doing there.
It was Leo Houlding’s idea. Leo is one of Britain’s most talented young climbers and aged eleven had been the youngest person ever to climb the Old Man of Hoy. If we did it together, I’d almost certainly be the oldest. I was immediately attracted to the idea, but at the time was facing the greatest crisis of my life. My wife Wendy had been diagnosed with motor neurone disease in December 2012 and was in the final stages of this cruel illness. I couldn’t leave her, certainly not to go climbing. She died on 24 July 2014. My grief was intense but climbing offered me the possibility of relief, almost an escape.
Going up to the Orkneys to climb the Old Man remained an attractive objective; it wouldn’t be the first time I’d sought consolation in this wild and lonely place. In 1966, Tom Patey, one of the great characters of Scottish climbing and a dear friend, had invited me to join him in making the first ascent shortly after the tragic death by drowning of three-year-old Conrad, my first son. I think his aim had been similar to Leo’s, to help me through my bewildering sense of loss. So I accepted Leo’s invitation and in late August set out to climb the Old Man of Hoy once again.
In many ways, our lives had followed similar paths, both of us making a living through the sport we love, lecturing and filming our ventures. Yet even though Leo is almost young enough to be my grandson, I think we share the sheer joy in climbing. We had come to know each other through our association with the outdoor brand Berghaus; I have been their non-executive chair for twenty years, Leo is their highest-profile athlete. He has matured into an outstanding team leader, becoming an important international ambassador for British climbing while still retaining a wonderful warmth and sense of fun.
Our climb on the Old Man of Hoy would have a media dimension, for The One Show, the BBC TV magazine programme. They were sending a climbing presenter, Andy Torbet. The schedule was tight, just four days to get the Old Man climbed and filmed, whatever the weather, and it wasn’t good. The first day was a recce while the crew rigged the route in preparation for filming. When I first climbed the Old Man live on television in 1967 for one of the BBC’s most successful outside broadcasts, it had been a logistical extravaganza at the very limits of broadcasting technology. Now it was all done wirelessly with lightweight digital cameras and edited on computers.
One thing you can’t change is the weather. It was raining hard now and there was a blustery wind as we plodded up the path to the top of the cliffs opposite the Old Man. I had plenty of time for doubts. For a start, I was horribly unfit; with Wendy’s illness I hadn’t had time for exercise, let alone climbing. In addition I had pulled something in my back just before leaving home while shifting some furniture. Was I up to it? Would I make a fool of myself in front of the cameras? Was it even possible to climb something like this at eighty?
The top of the Old Man came into sight, peeping over the clifftop, and I felt a tide of memory rushing in, familiar faces from that broadcast so many years ago: Tom Patey, one of the greatest pioneers of Scottish mountaineering; Joe Brown, that rock-climbing wizard with his sly sense of humour and tombstone grin; Ian McNaught-Davis, Joe’s ebullient, charismatic partner that day; and two from the next generation climbing a spectacular new route, the tyro Pete Crew and Dougal Haston, who would become a close friend and key member of my expeditions, enigmatic but hugely driven, all the way to the summit of Everest in 1975.
Soon Leo and I were standing on the edge of the cliff looking across to the Old Man: slender, somewhat menacing and very, very tall. There were group shots to take, and strategy to discuss. We were due to climb the following morning; the forecast was similar to what it had been for today, good in the morning but deteriorating. It was then I made my stand. I told the director there was no way I was prepared to try to climb it in those conditions and insisted on waiting another day. He wasn’t happy but I stuck to my guns and it was finally agreed we’d spend the next day doing interviews and climb the day after.
The following morning dawned fine; we could certainly have climbed and filmed but I desperately needed that break. Being interviewed by Leo took my mind off things, exploring how my life had unfolded. Always at its core was the climbing: the great joy of movement on the crags, the challenge of wild and remote landscapes and the chances I’d taken both in the mountains and in my career. Even the little fill-in sequences, walking over the beach or hopping between the wave-smoothed rocks had a therapeutic quality. By the end of the day I had recovered my equilibrium.
Next morning it was cloudy again, with a light intermittent drizzle, but it wasn’t too windy. We had no choice but to go for it and I felt ready. At the base of the tower, looming above us like a skyscraper, I took a deep breath: climbing shoes and harness on, waterproofs zipped up, feeling bulky and cumbersome, the radio mike emphasizing I was on show. Leo, cheerful and business-like, drifted up the first pitch. I had soloed this back in 1967 but when I started now I knew immediately my back wasn’t right. Each move hurt, particularly when I bridged out, my legs wide apart. There was nothing to be done. I had to get on with it.
The second pitch is the crux and very daunting. It begins with an awkward traverse under a bulging overhang into the dark heart of the cliff’s east face, moving from a place of security to having an unnerving void beneath your feet, the boiling sea a hundred feet below. It’s what climbers call exposure, that thrilling mix of space and fear. The traverse ended below an overhanging crack too narrow for my body but too wide for my hands. I coped at first and despite my back was climbing reasonably well. Leo kept the rope tight, but it didn’t do much to help. He’d also left a couple of slings in place at strategic points for me to pull on. Bless you, I thought, taking full advantage. It was only slightly cheating.
Filming a climb can be irritating; there are so many delays. Now I welcomed them since they allowed me a chance to rest and chat with old friends on the film crew. I had worked on several film projects with Dave Cuthbertson, universally known as ‘Cubby’, a brilliant rock climber who had refined his skills as a photographer and cameraman. He was doing the close-up work. We reminisced while Leo brought up Andy, our One Show presenter, and continued as Leo led the next pitch, quickly disappearing from sight.
I thought the climbing would now be relatively straightforward but the rock was wet and greasy and Leo had gone slightly off route, stuck in a high runner and traversed out to the right across a seemingly blank wall. I would now have to follow this traverse, with the promise of a swinging fall, like a pendulum, if I messed it up. To add to my trial, a fulmar chick was resting on a sloping ledge just above the start. The fulmar’s method of defence is to puke a jet of fishy bile at whatever threatens it, including rock climbers, and it proceeded to empty its stomach at me as I struggled to find a way across.
We had another welcome rest below the final pitch, a steep corner that bristled with holds. It was the one I had led on the first ascent back in 1966, the easiest of all the main pitches but aesthetically the most satisfying with the great bonus that it led to the top of the Old Man. I had hoped to lead it, but realized I wasn’t fit enough. Every move was now painful and I had the ominous feeling my back was about to get a lot worse.
There was another long but welcome delay as the filmmakers got into position for the final shots and then it was my turn to climb. I was glad of the rope above me, feeling slow and clumsy, but I managed without needing a tight rope, pulling over the top with a mixture of joy and tearful emotion. There was a hug from Leo, a pause while he brought up Andy, and then he produced a bottle of champagne from his rucksack. We toasted each other as the sun tried to break through and an Orkney ferry went cruising past. All the self-doubt was gone. The struggle and pain no longer mattered.
As I told the BBC interviewer, this business of getting old, in a way, is a bit of a pig. You’re stiffer and you’re slower; you can’t quite achieve what you did before. What getting to the top of the Old Man of Hoy showed me was that one can at least go on doing something. In ten years, I reflected, I would be ninety: a sobering thought. It seemed unlikely I would still be able to climb something like this then. What I wanted was to make every single day of my eighties mean something, get out and climb and walk, enjoy my grandchildren, keep working and make life as rich and exciting as it possibly can be. That’s what keeps you going.