This isn't a full trip report. There were too many of us doing too many things to make that possible. Instead I'm going to describe the most memorable aspects of our recent trip to Siurana in Spain.
Siurana is close to Barcelona in the Catalan region of Spain. It has a long and fascinating history dating back to Neanderthal man and beyond. I'll fast forward on all that and merely say that sport climbing was first introduced to Siurana in the early eighties and that in 1994 Alex Huber put up a 9a, savagely overhung route at the Siurana Valley Crag, called 'La Rambla.'
Over the space of a few days, fourteen of us from Dublin, Galway and Paris arrived. I was in the Galway group with John, Barry, Jim and Tadhg. Before leaving Galway, Maeve made us promise to look after John, not to let him hurt himself. Well, Maeve, we made him eat his greens, only let him climb easy routes and tucked him into his sleeping bag at night. Maeve, stop reading here.
Most of us are trad climbers through and through. Some of us made the transition to the sport ethic, some didn't. John in particular deserves some slagging. On a certain overhang, very well bolted, he became pumped and rested on a bolt. We tried to convince him to push through the rest of the route and fall rather than slump. Some grunting and groaning followed, then a paniced shout of "Take, take!" as he plumetted two inches, screaming like a big girl's blouse. Barry on the other hand quickly grew used to pushing himself through the pump and taking the fall if it came. In fact he grew a bit too comfortable with falls: by the end he'd take a big whipper just because he couldn't be arsed doing the next move.
Life on a climbing trip is reduced to essentials. Like ordinary life it has a routine, but that routine is more focused. Breakfast, climbing, dinner, sleep. Repeat. But when the climbing is good, the food tastes so much better. The feasts we made for ourselves were among the best I've had. One day, after three vegetarian nights, we all developed a craving for meat: that night we truly sated it. The meal was excessive, the first course was a slab of thick steak each. Due to a shortage of knifes and forks I had to tear apart my steak with tooth and nail. I've never rended flesh before, it makes quite a distinctive sound. The second course was a side of salmon, the third another half steak. We even had desert, a single large bowl full of strawberries, kiwis and cream; people asking for their own bowl were regarded as being a bit self important.
I bought a down sleeping bag recently, and I've started to sleep properly while camping; previously I'd wake up several times needing to add more layers of clothes. On the first or second morning, I woke feeling particularly refreshed. Unexpectedly the topic of conversation over breakfast was me: everyone elses slumber had been shattered in the middle of the night by frenzied shouting. I had slept right through it, funnily enough, since it was me, sleeptalking! Apparently I was screaming "Stop! Stop! Arghhhhhhhh! Stop!" and came close to windmilling Jim. It was proabably a delayed reaction to the eighties pop music our neighbours played earlier in the evening.
Viv had expected Spain to be warm and had not brought a decent sleeping bag. Carole had refused to snuggle up to her on the first night, so when the Galway crowd arrived she forced John and Barry into her tent and ordered them to cuddle up to her.... for warmth.... (Maeve, I told you not to read on....)
A few climbs stand out in my mind, in particular the hard ones. I've noticed that in sport climbing, unless a route pushes me to my limit, it doesn't stand out from the others. On trad climbs, or long multipitches, the situation, the exposure and the commitment are as much a part of the climb as the moves themselves. These aspects of climbing aren't present to the same extent in sport. I'm only going to mention one route. I can't remember the name, the exact grade is unimportant, it was near my upper limit. In fact most of the route is a blank, the essence of the route for me can be distilled down to a single move. I was near the top, half way through the final bulge on what felt like improbably small crimps, the last bolt well below my feet, the next one imtimidatingly far above my head. I didn't feel I could pull through the moves let alone clip the rope. On the other hand I wanted the flash and more importantly didn't want to fall. I reasoned that bolts were usually placed beside good holds, so pulled through the moves. This bolt was positioned beside the worst crimp yet. I wanted to fall even less than before. Bizarrely the Red Hot Chilli Peppers song 'Music is my Aeroplane' was cycling around my head:
I like pleasure spiked with pain and music is my aeroplane,Bit like climbing really. I credit the song for helping me to make the atrocious clip from that crimp, and pushing my onsight level half a grade higher. Thank you, guys.
It's my aeroplane, Songbird sweet and sour Jane and music is my aeroplane,
It's my aeroplane, pleasure spiked with pain, that motherfucker's always spiked with pain.
(Just in case you were wondering, the route wasn't La Rambla).
Almost everyone pushed their grade on the trip, in particular Neal onsighted 7a+, Jim 6a+ and John and Paddy 6b. The sun shone. We all had fun.
