The older I get, the more people ask me what I do to train for mountaineering. Training in the sense advocated by ‘trainers’ and gyms and the like is something I have never really fancied. Many years ago, in pre-children days, I used to spend every weekend in the UK climbing. And that was, if you want to look at it that way, my training for mountaineering.
As the years have moved on, my obsession with climbing has broadened slightly and my ‘training’ exploits tend to be more varied, less frequent and more carefully chosen. They include most things that involve playing outdoors: caving, fell racing, biking, kayaking and of course rock climbing. These activities usually take place in the Peak District after work, but opportunities closer to home are always welcome. In this respect, the reinforcement-rod-ridden crack that Paul and I had climbed on Nottingham Castle cliff had stayed firmly implanted in my memory. At the time we were convinced that it would be a one-off climb that took advantage of a lull in the vegetated nature of the place. But we had underestimated the passionate and ongoing enthusiasm that Nottingham City Council was to display for removing vegetation. And so, during regular lunchtime clear-the-head strolls from my office, I was able to monitor an ongoing and thorough cleaning process and feel a sense of excitement building as more climbing possibilities were revealed.
The time came when a glaringly obvious crack line on the left side of the steep central section of the cliff had been thoroughly cleaned and I could feel a growing urge to try and climb it. There were sections that looked as if they might prove too difficult for me, but at least the crack was continuous and might offer some protection at the most difficult points.
After the obligatory 5.30 a.m. Sunday start we crossed the spiky railings and Paul set off enthusiastically. At fifteen metres a small ledge beckoned, on which the workmen had kindly left a curious threaded rod sticking out of the rock. It was only six millimetres or so in diameter and a little too far to one side to make an ideal belay, but Paul tied himself to it all the same. My pitch then involved a tricky traverse into a wide crack of the most sandy and once-vegetated kind. The kind workmen had removed the vegetation but pigeons had already taken up residence and appeared well established. Insecurely fighting my way up through pigeon shit and general sandiness, I was surprised to come across an angle peg – presumably dating from Doug Scott’s exploits back in the 1970s. I briefly considered removing it and sending it to him as a memento, but the insecurity level was such that I decided to use it as a runner instead. Ten metres or so higher I pulled on to a tree stump protruding from the crack where the angle eased. The workmen had gone to great pains to reduce root damage by killing off any substantial trees, but fortunately there had not been enough time for decay to set in. The stump felt pleasingly secure as I attached myself to it and stood looking out across the rooftops to the building where I worked.
We were now at the level where camouflaged fibreglass shell replaced rock. Climbing that would be a bit like climbing a thin shield of detached ice, with an embarrassing fall into an alarmed castle tunnel as the penalty for poor judgement or incompetence. Grateful for the opportunity to avoid this, Paul thrashed up short, overhanging walls and ivy to battle finally through dense vegetation and emerge on to the castle balcony.
A man was leaning against a secluded section of the castle wall and smoking a cigarette. He appeared unsure about Paul’s sudden appearance and held back until both of us arrived at the terrace. He looked sufficiently scruffy for us to wonder whether he had slept there and we had just woken him up.
‘Good morning,’ announced Paul cheerfully.
The man drew uncomfortably on his cigarette and walked towards us.
‘What you’re doing is dangerous behaviour.’
‘What leads you to say that? We are enjoying ourselves,’ Paul replied.
He pointed towards a sign on the inside edge of the terrace wall.
Dangerous Behaviour Will Lead to Prosecution.
‘It’s not dangerous. Look, we have all the right equipment.’
The man peered curiously at our ropes, nuts and camming devices. He seemed to find our chalk bags particularly interesting.
‘He is president of the Alpine Club,’ announced Paul, pointing to me.
I wasn’t very sure that this was a good way forward. But the man’s gaze had already turned to me.
‘The first British ascencionist of Everest climbed here,’ I announced grandly.
‘I don’t give a **** about that. I am going to call the police.’
This was an interesting development. It still wasn’t clear to me that he wasn’t just dossing round the back of the castle. Now he was certainly acting as if he was a security guard. Whoever he was, it had become clear that any hope of a calm and considered outcome was ill placed. We decided it was time to leave.
At this point the man leapt forward to try and physically obstruct us.
‘You ****ers are not going anywhere,’ he shouted.
Paul seemed to know his rights in this kind of situation and responded along the lines that physically preventing us from leaving could be regarded as assault and could render him liable to prosecution. The man stopped and looked bemused. Unhelpfully I stoked the fire further:
‘And you will risk prosecution for wasting police time.’
‘You won’t ****ing get away with this!’ he screamed.
It still wasn’t 7 a.m. but it was turning into quite a memorable Sunday morning.
A stand-off ensued. Paul and I discussed whether to force our way past him and try to exit the grounds via our previously used abseil position. Paul was quite keen whereas I urged caution, wondering what this increasingly out-of-control man might do to our rope (and hence us!) if we abseiled in front of him. I also thought that any police that he managed to summon were very likely to arrive in time to catch us and might view an abseil descent as us trying to run away from the scene.
The man was already on the phone by now and we could hear him shouting how urgent it was that police officers attended immediately as there was ‘an incident’.
By the time two officers arrived our awkward trio stood in silence by the big iron gates of the castle’s main entrance.
‘And what is the problem here?’ a policeman asked.
I stepped forward: ‘This man can’t accept that we have been enjoying a climb. He seems to think that we have been trying to break into the castle.’
The police officers took a moment to take in our bright orange helmets and jangling array of climbing gear.
‘Not exactly what we would wear if we were trying to break in,’ suggested Paul.
‘They climbed over the bloody wall,’ ranted the guard. (We had by now accepted that he must be some kind of guard.)
A few questions followed, during which it transpired that the police lady was from Paul’s home town of Pudsey. The guard was shouting in a curiously incoherent manner by this time and insisted that the policeman join him in a circuit of the walls to check for evidence of a break-in. Meanwhile Paul and the police lady were engaged in much pleasant reminiscing about Yorkshire childhoods.
Unsurprisingly no evidence of a break-in was found. In a final fling of defiance though the guard pressed for our camera cards to be confiscated. A sort of compromise was reached in that we would allow our pockets to be searched for anything incriminating. And on finding nothing of interest beyond mud and pigeon shit there seemed little more to be done.
‘It would be better if you sought written permission before climbing here again,’ commented the policeman.
I vaguely wondered how the challenge of securing a permit from the bureaucrats in the council might compare with getting a permit to climb from the Chinese authorities. Nottingham Castle cliff and the Himalaya certainly have more in common than the casual observer might think.
A few weeks later a new sign appeared at the base of the castle rock:
Anyone caught climbing will be reported to the police.
It seemed a remarkably weak sign; being reported to the police had been very pleasant.