climb

06:03 and exactly two minutes before my alarm is set to go off; I've managed to presage and disarm my alarm by two to three minutes on most given mornings since I was in my early teens, though where, exactly, this wasted skill comes from is beyond me. A couple of spoonfulls of cereal, a shower and a brief sandwich-build later, and I am on my way through sleeping Cambridge to the bus stop on the edge of a green. A small group of cold, duffled figures awaits me; most are balanced on their heels in a semi-comatose state, some managing to raise their eyebrows in my general direction. I think of penguins and smile in return.

With no skill at all, I locate the tell-tale cheery grin and general liveliness of what can only be the only other morning-person in the group, and make my inquiries; yes, right place, right time; we're off to Staffordshire to climb the Roaches.

In a little over three hours, I find myself muttering something about having captured a little piece of Eden; all around us, glacial erratics of all sizes litter the ground, their presence and intense solidity softened by tufted carpets of pale green, yellow and grey lichens, puncuated, here and there, by tufts of fuzzy, luxuriant moss. The ground is so laden with pine needles that it feels squidgy beneath my feet, and up ahead is an unbroken rank of sheer gritstone cliffs, the Lower Tier, looking like the typical roche moutonée of geology exercise books, back in the days of school.

Breaking off as a group of four, my companions and I take to bouldering - locating a specimen boulder, guestimating the best means of ascent and then putting it into practice - in order to get a feel for the local substratum; every site is different, and this is a safer means of both warming up and gauging what you can and can't pull off on the rock type in question.

And this stuff is sandpaper; by the end of the day, my fingertips will be so raw that washing them under tepid water makes them burn, but it is a great surface over which to ascend, so we do; go spiderman. Just as well that it makes for an easier climb, as I am the weakest cog in the machine today because of a useless left reach; some intercostal damage and minor bruising to my ribs, courtesy of an overzealous novice at jitsu last week, means that I can't support myself on my left side beyond a point - and when I reach that point my left grip painfully fails entirely, like some tension spring that needs to be reset before each use. Babysteps up the cliffs for me; I value my beating heart.

By the end of the afternoon, we've top-roped up a couple of sheer, vertical slopes, had our hides saved by our belayers (the saint you allocate to the end of your rope, as pictured above) in falls both practised and accidental, abseiled, seconded, barbecued, been rained on, been chilled to the bone by icy winds that actually managed to tip at least one person over, and peed in full sight of strange women. Exhausting and energising all rolled into one. A slow moment to take in the wonderful view of the Tittesworth Resevoir from on high, then down we go for the last time.

My legs are bleeding in five places; it's a great sign of quality time when you don't even notice till you've undressed.