Armed with Peters 1960's copy of the guidebook, I was keen to make use of the 50 metres of secondhand climbing rope, a bargain from the Errol Car Boot sale.
"Of course you're meant to go over every inch of it with a fine tooth comb looking for cuts and abrasions aren't you?"
"Achh, it looks all right though."
"They wouldn't have knowingly sold you a defective rope."
"Yes, but... it was money for old rope all the same."
Peter's part in the process was to act as a dead weight on the other end of it, in the event of me parting company with Bollard Buttress Direct (80 ft Severe). This difficulty should have been upped a grade on account of the fights I had with the car boot rope getting tangled in various species of broom and heather.
Ticks can be an added interest this time of year. On the last visit it was a couple of days before I noticed one with its head buried in my groin. The answer is smothering the creature with Castrol LM Grease.
On the drive back conversation turned to how stealthy the tick can be as a climber, together with speculation as to what they actually do whilst waiting for something warm blooded to pass by? A tick must on occasion go through its whole life and never bury its head in anything.
It was just about then that I noticed one making its way up the east side of Peter's face, it was on Upper Jaw Direct making for the steep overhang at Earlobe Corner. I said I think you've got a facial tic(k) there. Peter remained in control of the Volvo but now the tick is living somewhere down near the clutch and brake pedals.
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