Like many climbers I had read about and seen films of Alain Robert’s solo climbing on urban structures – very impressive in commitment and grandeur but not really inspiring me in the sense of making me want to do the same. I had also seen Johnny Dawes playing on concrete in the film Stone Monkey and it looked fun in a way. Yet the seemingly repetitive movement forced by climbing on man-made architecture held no personal appeal. Ironic then that walking back from the centre of Bristol late one night I lifted my head from revery to see a short crack – that most repetitive of climbs! There it was. It stood out so clearly and obviously in that moment: a thing both apart from and a part of its environment. A climb, surrounded by tower blocks and graffiti. Why had I not noticed it before? Why the sudden attraction now?
The crack turned out to be jammed full of nails with painful edges of sharp and broken concrete, and too technical for me to climb in that moment wearing trainers. But a few days later I persuaded two friends into trying it with me. It was the middle of a very hot summer so we went back early in the dawn morning, wondering what else we could find. Simon climbed the crack first, tearing a hole in the rubber of his boots and the side of one finger, calling it Nails Arête.
Afterwards, prompted by vague memory of a grainy photograph taken by a friend, we moved to Castle Park. In this survival of open space from Bristol’s bombed out history we discovered quality technical movement on the park’s reconstructed walls. As the sun rose commuters appeared around us on their ways to work and whilst the bustle increased we experienced the Bristolian classics of Castle Arête and Harvey’s Crack. These are two great climbing problems of very different character; one requiring careful balance to prevent a barndoor motion on smears, the other layback proficiency and mental commitment towards its highball nature.
Thus we were introduced to the unexpected possibilities of urban climbing. Previous assumptions were quickly proved wrong. Here instead were all the freedoms of movement and adventure as could be understood by any climber, right amidst the mind-numbing constraints of consumerism. Perhaps this was made no more obvious than when climbing Harvey’s Crack beside Harvey Nichols, that nearby cathedral of corporate worship (and once B.A.S.E jumped in a similar dis-association of meaning whilst its building was under construction).
Yet something else happened for me after climbing Harvey’s Crack. I realised this when walking past it again a few days after my ascent. Glancing across the road and seeing it once more made me aware that the crack was no longer just broken architecture: it had become a thing through experience. And experiencing this thing physically left me with a surprisingly intimate connection to this obscure part of the city, something difficult to quantify perhaps but shared, so I am told, by others who have felt it.
That feeling deepend during the following hot months. Going out mostly in the early mornings or at night when it was cool I sought out more problems with friends and by myself. Some, like the established traditional training ground of the Hotwells and Seamills traverses, had been climbed on before, but we found much that was new. The only conditions attached to our searching were that climbs featured technical movement and top-outs.
This led us to the harbourside and a meeting with the ankle-snapping potential of Captain Heelhook. We returned to Castle Park where harder challenges revealed themselves once the walls had been cleared of a proliferation of rusty nails (a legacy of several nitrous-oxide fuelled urban ‘festivals’ – but what were they really celebrating?). And then me and Sam discovered a beautiful orange wall by Bristol University and more Bristolian classics were climbed one evening upon this ‘electric wall’, so called because I got electrocuted that night by an unseen live wire sticking out of its stone. I was still tingling when I went to sleep, impressed by Sam’s ability and willingness to sit start very small holds and intimidated by another big red wall nearby.
The reactions of other people were curious. Predictably some could not accept what we were doing and felt it was wrong (without knowing why) and had to tell us not to do it. Occasionally some felt inspired and tried to join in. One particularly inebriated individual showed notable tenacity during his attempted ascent of Castle Park’s Blossom Wall in unlaced trainers and the pitch dark. Another attempted Castle Arête with his cock hanging out of his unzipped trousers. But whilst I think it fair to say that Guy’s ground-up solo first ascent of Insecurity [E4 6a/b] at 12pm midweek on the initimidating big red wall blew some minds that day before university security quickly moved us on, there were also many people who just did not care. In one memorable moment for instance a woman walked right underneath Martin, too absorbed in her mobile phone to notice him struggling on the highball crux directly above her head.
More surprising however, at least to me, were the responses from other climbers invited to join us. Some appeared simply amused, offering polite refusal alongside excuses. Most likely though was a blunt expression of negativity. It was just like Whipplesnaith had once written in The Night Climbers of Cambridge, that “until they have tried themselves on buildings, they assume roof-climbing to be straightforward as a rope in a gymnasium” (p5). So eventually I stopped asking, quietly concluding that most climbers are really only consumers. A few open-minded friends were willing to experiment however and quickly found their expectations challenged like mine had been. Thus I frequently observed them try a problem and then immediately reclimb it out of pleasure for the movement and the moment. Or, like Guy said at the base of Insecurity (just before security came running over to stop him), “I want to do that again”.
Perhaps this was most obvious at what came to be called the ‘B.R.I wall’. To be generous this wall looks horrible. Situated beside a hospital car park, surrounded by high buildings and city noise, its stonework is depressingly grey and soiled with grimy streaks. And it hurt us. Or rather it hurt Hugh who fell off and missed the pad when a hold snapped, landing with one foot on the unforgiving concrete below and breaking his heel, giving name to Well Heeled. Yet strangely this became my favourite venue in Bristol and I’ve since spent much time here climbing alone (when the hospital security don’t notice me). Because, despite appearances, this wall offers some lovely movement and valuable lessons in technique. Most of all though it taught me the importance of positive mind, learnt through the process of contemplating one seemingly blank upper section, doubting both its possibility and my own ability, then consciously refusing to give up, finding a sequence through some small, hidden holds, and finally topping out over the railings above it with a smile.
[Photos in order: Simon on Nails Arête, Ollie on Harvey’s Crack (photo by Martin Harris), Sam on Captain Heelhook, Kelly on Castle Arête (right side), Lee on What’s In a Number?]
Oliver Keynes 