Arguably the best route on the Old Man of Hoy

South Face of the Old Man of Hoy photo courtesy of Adam Long

James, guardian of the Burnmouth Both in Ratwick, probably has the best idea of anyone of how many teams a year climb the Old Man of Hoy. His estimate is one hunndred and fifty per year. Of these we mused, how many were by the original route? Eighty percent? Ninty percent? Ninty nine percent?

As we peered upwards into the mist enshrouded heights of the rock tower we knew one thing; there were five people climbing the original route and none on the GMB West Face route. Congratulating ourselves on our originality we gently mock the numpty cluster fuck taking place around the corner. Assuredly we tease in a couple of optimistic wires as a ‘belay’. I settle back to watch Reeve dispatch the first 5c pitch. Half-jokingly I suggest we might beat the other teams to the top.

Twenty minutes of total failure later we were again both still stood on the starting ledges. Damp, sand generating slopers, indifferent gear and fragile footholds with a propensity to crumble had defeated all upwards progress at a height of less than five metres. Daunted we swapped lead; additional RP’s were nestled into cracks, holds rigorously brushed and good jams on the lip of the overhang gained. Having stuffed the break with the largest cams I ran it out to the belay. Confidence slightly knocked we muttered something about there being no point in retreating yet and continued on.

Over the next few hours we both, backed off, traversed off, prevaricated and split pitches at additional belays. The guide description quickly became mere optimistic guidance.

Struggling to progress upwards I forced a wafer thin traverse in desperation. A unique crouching experience, stooped below an overhang, smearing sandy foot holds and pinching a horizontal wafer thin flake. Walking never felt so exposed and gear never felt so far away. Had this been included in the original ascent I’m sure it would have had a prominent write up.

We quickly realised our double set of wires were nothing but ballast whilst our double set of cams were woefully inadequate. As we climbed higher it became clear that bailing off this route was going to be a costly exercise.  I favoured building a good belay, tying both our ropes together and worrying about the consequences tomorrow whilst Reeve was eyeing up a diagonal abseil across the North Face to the sanctuary of easy ground. As both of these plans seemed worse than continuing upwards we kept going. The forth pitch stretched on forever with its thirty five metres (really?) eventually broken down into three pitches with us finally gaining the terrace thirty metres below the summit at about eight pm. A mere half hour prior to sun set. We used the terrace to bail onto easy ground, topping out in time to watch the sun set. As we descended into the gathering darkness we agreed that tomorrow we would return to finish it off.

Needless to say there was no sign of the party of five.

Another late start saw us looking down from the landward cliff top behind the old man. A slow moving team on the first pitch of the original route filled us with horror. Our plan of blasting up the trade route and abbing into the final (crux) pitch of the GMB looked optimistic. Luckily they headed left up the South Face in a shower of loose holds and fulmar vomit, leaving the way clear. One pitch of overhanging offwidth, two pitches of ledge shuffling and one good corner led to the top. We abseiled and traversed into position below the final thirty metre, overhanging corner system, of the GMB. At this point I declared that having led the lion’s share of the lower section it was only fair to let Reeve have first refusal. He almost bit my hand off.

This last pitch was epic in position and quality. The final capping buttress overhung the North West arête and the climbing was steep and athletic with enough gear to provide comfort but long enough run-outs to focus the mind. A section of wafer thin flakes added spice with the specialty being good breaks with a subsidiary fragile flake above. This left one with no option but to trust the fragile higher surface. When weighted these often held for a while before dropping you, unexpectedly half a centimetre lower onto the solid hold below. Logic flew out the window on these occasions and I’m sure I heard whimpering floating down from above along with the sandy debris.

This time we topped out with plenty of time to enjoy the summit. Three tops in two days seemed quite good going.

Having only climbed the West Face GMB route and the East Face Original route I’m possibly not in a position to argue that the GMB is the best route up the Old Man but I do know that if I head back again I’m taking less wires, a triple rack of cams and going for the one-day speed ascent. Although as Dave Turnball always insists, the best thing to take on routes like this is John Arran.

Big John - St John's Head - Hoy

Harry was psyched. Oliver Hill who had climbed the first accent of the Longhope Route had filled his head with crazy ideas while they bouldered at Bowls Rocks. To get in training he had done laps on the Super-Low-Level-Traverse. Simon and I were along for the ride.

We’d had an exploratory recce the evening before. At 8pm the sea had been calm. John-the-Boatman had been able to get the semi inflatable rib within 6 ft of the shore. It had almost looked as if we would be able to step ashore.

John-the-Boatman's boat

At 7am the following morning the change was obvious. The sea was far rougher and John would pilot the boat no closer to the shore than 100ft due to the swell. Rocks below the water intermittently became visible as the boat rose and fell. There was a moment’s hesitation before we were all naked in the boat eying up the waves. It looked daunting. It dawned on us that we had far too much stuff for two drybags. One of us was going to have to swim it twice.

We plunged in and struck out to the shore whilst John watched. As we got closer the size of the boulders and the swell surging between them became even more apparent. Harry and Simon managed to get established on the land proper whilst I ended up perched on a boulder separated from safety by a channel of surging water. I watched the water level fluctuate from 10 ft deep to bare rock again as the waves surged in. I teetered, totally mystified as to how to proceed but before I got too concerned an enormous wave cast me off my rock, solving my dilemma. I struggled ashore.

Harry repeated the swim whilst Simon and I nakedly shouted encouragement.

John then headed off leaving us sitting on the rocky shore. It seemed an alien place, unaccustomed to human presence. Huge sea birds could be heard groaning and croaking amongst the rocks behind us. The sight of the boat leaving focused our minds on the climb above.

Above us towered the cliff, damp in the early morning dew.

After drying out and warming up, we traversed left to the base of the grass slab.

The guide described the grass slab as being 145 meters long but looking up from below we glibly assured ourselves it could probably be done in two long pitches. Our brains had yet to convince our eyes it was really that big.

It took four 60 meter pitches.

St John's Head looming above the grass slab

The slab was still festooned with the rope left by Roland Edwards but this appeared to be only held in place by the grass. The pegs which once attached it to the rock dangled forlornly, dripping rust. Fulmars emerged from holes to projectile vomit at us. We climbed in approach shoes reasoning that it was easier to climb English 4b moves in trainers than wet grass in rock boots.

As we got onto the rock the climbing improved and several pitches led us to ledges at the base of a fantastic overhanging flake. This flake led up to a ledge on the arête and beyond this the unknown. It was Harry’s lead but he did not look massively confident.

After he’d had a couple of abortive starts Simon was forced to offer to lead the pitch for him. This had the desired effect goading Harry upwards. The thought of being upstaged by his little brother sending him laybacking and heelhooking his way to glory. As the flake opened up he was able to attain a sitting position in the groove, shaking out both hands whilst hanging on with his thighs.

The overhanging flakes

Another good pitch led up to the ledge on the arête where darkness overtook us and we stopped for the night. The ledge was just about big enough, we were tired, it did not rain and was not windy so the night was not too horrific. I had a balaclava for bivying in and snored enthusiastically.

In the cold grey flat light of dawn, enthusiasm was hard to find. I think it was the lure of movement generated warmth that spurred us upwards. Glancing over our shoulders a low sea mist was flowing out from Scapa Flow to our north and Ratwick Bay to the south. Passing the technical crux involved me at the belay belaying, Harry belayed higher spotting and Simon pulling hard on small holds. After bouldering through a roof, small wires were fiddled into small cracks and further hard moves gained the top. We followed on tight ropes!

We found ourselves in the most amazing feature, a horizontal chimney cleaving the cliff. This four foot high slot cut into the cliff about six to ten feet. Its base was made up of loose boulders slowly flowing outwards, whilst its roof, a sold slab of sandstone, jutted outwards beyond the cliff below. We crawled and squirmed along towards some massive fallen boulders where a line of weakness offered a chance to breach the blank overhang above.

The slot ledge

By this time we were running low on food and water. Our water bottles which we had filled at a spring at the base were worryingly empty. We instituted a policy of monitoring water usage, categorizing sips, swigs, gulps and swiggy gulps. We paranoidly watched each others throats, monitoring the movement of the adams apple for signs of multiple illicit gulps. As it was my turn to lead and I was embarking on The Pitch I was allowed a swiggy gulp.

The Pitch was the pitch which had been worrying us the whole time. This is the pitch which had required a point of aid and two pegs on the first accent. Although it had since been climbed free, we were daunted. Twenty years was a long time for a peg on a sea cliff. Our imaginations ran riot as we imagined rotting horrors protecting boulder problem moves between breaks. Actually we weren’t daunted, we were bricking it.

Reality did not disappoint. A peg leered down from above the overhang, a snaplink gently swinging from its corroded metal eye. The snaplink was devoid of its gate; presumably the anode like behaviour of the two different metals had accelerated its rusting. This had not saved the peg which looked equally knackered. I clipped it anyway. Clipping it couldn’t hurt. When I finally got to a crack I unloaded my entire rack into it, leading to an involuntary splitting of the pitch at a hanging stance shortly after. Simon had the privilege of climbing upwards past the second peg. This had lost its eye completely.

The release of tension climbing the crux afforded was massive. Up until this point we had been concerned that we might not make it. The cloud rolled in and we pushed onwards to the top. I relished the thought of the supplies we would find waiting for us.

Emelda met us at the top with Harry’s bicycle and some supplies. Food never tasted so good. We got back to the hut at midnight and washed the fulmar vomit off by swimming in the sea. Skinny dipping at midnight seemed far more sensible than having a fishy sleeping bag from now until eternity.

Looking across at the upper section from the cliff top

Fully committed to the crux pitch

St John's Head with The Old Man in the background