the nostalgia project: Lai Bab, Thailand (1998)

The route

Lai Bab is an overhanging 7a+ (YDS 5.12a) sport route on the Tonsai Beach cliff at the karst limestone peninsula variously known as Tonsai, Railay, Phra Nang, Laem Phra Nang, Krabi or "that place in Thailand". I believe Laem Phra Nang is the accurate name but TripAdvisor and Lonely Planet use Railay, so I will too. Quicker to type, anyway.

Tonsai beach (left) and Railay West beach (right) in 1998 

Railay East beach in 1998

The growth of sport climbing in the 1980s and 1990s, especially at sunny venues in southern Europe, helped redefine the "climbing holiday" from a typically uncomfortable experience, unsuitable for family or less-committed climbers, to something more hedonistic. The final evolution of this concept would be one-stop climbing "resorts" like JoSiTo in Turkey but an important milestone along that road was the development of sport climbing in genuinely glamourous locations that almost no-one would need persuasion to visit. Railay, with its four white sand beaches, mandatory boat access, jungle backdrop, monkeys and giant surreal rock architecture, was the original, and perhaps still the best, example.

I first became aware of the place in the early-90s, possibly from magazine articles but also possibly from the eccentric 1994 book "Exotic Rock". Though effectively a humble-brag by the author, Sam Lightner, showing off just how extensively he had travelled, it was also quite inspiring.

Exotic Rock's world map. I have still only visited four of these areas.

The context

In January 1998, Shoko relocated from Tokyo to London to live with me. Before her arrival I had suggested that it might be best if she started rock climbing, as I was unlikely to be giving the sport up. With that in mind, I organised a series of trips to aesthetic overseas climbing venues that I hoped would sell the sport better than grotty British cliffs. Over the next two years we sport climbed in Tenerife, Mallorca, Railay, Smith Rock, Red Rocks, Siurana and Buoux, bouldered in the Seychelles and put up new trad routes on Inishturk island in Ireland. It helped that my career trajectory was in good shape at that time and money not a major constraint. There was no camping or similar hardship involved in any of these trips.

That said, when researching a one week visit to Railay for March 1998 I did have a brief dilemma. The area had a luxury hotel (then part of the Dusit group, now The Rayavadee). I guessed Shoko would feel cheated not to stay there but the price was outrageous. We compromised by booking a standard backpacker hotel for the first few nights then the Dusit for the remainder.

This worked out well, though it quickly became obvious that the Dusit was not used to hosting climbers. Right from our arrival we confused them by marching into reception with our bags rather than being dropped off on their boat shuttle from Krabi. Then we raised their eyebrows further by setting off out of their compound with backpacks and a rope to re-join the proletariat and climb.

The accommodation itself was quite fabulous. We had our own two storey villa with a little private plunge pool outside. Phra-nang beach, the prettiest of the four beaches, was a short stroll away on manicured lawns through palm trees.

Whether the Dusit was worth the price I was less sure. We had also enjoyed staying in our OK hotel room with its quasi-functional plumbing and noisy ceiling fan on the previous nights. I have been lucky to stay in quite a few fancy hotels over the years, also flown first class several times and eaten in some famous restaurants (Le Manoir, four different Nobu's, etc). These experiences have left me undecided as to the actual value of luxury. I have noticed that there are several ways in it can disappoint. An obvious one is if expectations are set unrealistic high. Then there is the anxiety brought on by the excessive choice which is often a feature of high-end travel; pillow menus, for example. Arguably, luxury only becomes truly luxurious once it becomes routine, and you are able to, say, sleep all the way through your first class flight and not over-order champagne and fiddle with the movie channels. Overall, I think it is good to sample this kind of thing a few times in your life then convince yourself you don't need it.

Queen Shoko in our private pool at the Dusit

And slumming it on the backpacker beach

On that theme, I had a bizarre encounter during our Dusit stay. We were walking back along Phra-nang beach in the early evening after climbing at some cliff at its far end. A european guy in a Dusit uniform yelled at me to ask - not very politely - for help. It turned out that he needed to move the Dusit's wooden shuttle pier higher up on the beach away from the tide line. It was a four person job and he was one short. For some reason, I agreed. It was a brief task - we only had to stumble a few metres - but the pier was brutally heavy and, sans warm-up, felt like a back-strain risk. When the job was done, Shoko and I stepped off the beach into the Dusit's compound. Uniform-guy started yelling again, this time warning that we were on private property. "I know", I replied, waving our room key, "We are guests". His face fell satisfactorily but we didn't hang around to see what he would say next. It dawned on me that he had only targeted me for help because he had assumed from my climber clothes that I couldn't be staying in the hotel.

The next evening we were eating in the Dusit's main dining room when uniform-guy came over to apologise. With hindsight I realise that this would have been an excellent opportunity to fake great outrage and a stiff back, and insist on compensation, or, at least, many free drinks. Instead I made a pious little speech about stereotyping, and suggested he treat climbers with more respect going forward.

The climbing, of course, was pretty good. Diary notes aren't very detailed, but I remember that Shoko had fun and was solid on the routes we tried up to ~6a (YDS 5.10b), including Massage Secrets, a cool three pitch route with amazing tufa stalactites. This was so good that we did it again on our departure day to get more photos.

Shoko following Massage Secrets

... and at one of the belays

The ascent

We did not venture over to the Tonsai beach cliff until late in our stay. The hike from the Railay West beach passed over an area of low-angle rock which I remember being sharp and awkward. At that time, there was just one beach bar and some very rudimentary huts at Tonsai. In my memory, it is populated by the sort of hairy German stoners who were a fixture at cliffs like Siurana in the 1990s, but that's probably totally inaccurate and unfair. I didn't intend to try anything "hard" but ended up watching someone on Lai Bab and thinking "I could do that". To my surprise, I flashed it. Not an onsight as I had observed the previous climber use a non-obvious undercut which proved to be essential beta. I was reasonably accustomed to flashing routes at that grade but not so often that I wasn't really pleased. It was very cool to climb smoothly on something so steep. The wall was around 45 degrees overhanging.

On the way back to the Dusit we got waylaid at a beach bar, first watching the sunset and then sitting on the sand while hippy firedancers performed to Leftism - that ubiquitous soundtrack to the mid-90s. A very clichéed experience but great. If someone entrusted me with a time machine to revisit moments from my life, I'd probably set the dial to that day in 1998 first.

My flash ascent of Lai Bab

Subsequent ascents

I have not climbed in Thailand subsequently. Shoko, Leo and I did spend about a week in Ao Nang, a few kilometres west of Railay, in January 2007. Though it was a strict "non-climbing" holiday, we did day-trip in a boat over to Railay. One change was immediately evident: the whole Tonsai beach area had been developed. Presumably as a consequence, what had been an empty crescent of white sand and blue sea was full of moored boats and the water had become brackish and unappealing. I made a mental note that the place was now "spoiled". But then I remembered that before we visited in 1998, some friends, who had been there a few years earlier, had warned that the place was too popular and "ruined" - which had not been our experience at all. In the same vein, while researching this blog post, I noticed a commentator on Mountain Project complaining that the place had been "discovered" since his first visit - which had been in 2009! It is all relative.

Leo on Railay West beach in 2007

the nostalgia project: Twinkler, UK (1997)

The route

Trwyn Llwyd is a vowel-free gabbro  sea cliff in the esoteric Welsh climbing area of North Pembroke. Twinkler is a two pitch HVS (~YDS 5.9) that wanders across the cliff finding the easiest line between much harder routes. In the 1990s it was graded VS.

The context

For all sorts of reasons best left undocumented, 1997 was a chaotic year for me. The frequency of my weekend climbing was about the same as usual but I was very distracted and did little of note.  In grade terms, the highlight was a trip to El Chorro in Spain in January where I redpointed a 7b fairly easily. One unusual feature of the year was that Dan (mentioned twice before in this blog and likely to recurr again) rented a room from me in the north London flat that I had just bought. Inevitably this meant that we climbed together more often.

In May we spent a long weekend in the North Pembroke. I believe the  motivation was that a new guidebook had just come out. Photos show that we dossed two nights in a pub car park; a typical strategy in those days. On Saturday and Sunday we visited four cliffs, roping up for several routes in the E1-E3 range, most of which seemed somewhat less worthwhile than the guidebook promised.

(fresh) Airbnb - 90's style

The Economist and the Financial Times - essential accessories for the travelling Londoner

The ascent

On Monday, the diary notes that it was "scorchingly hot" and that we climbed unroped most of the day, mostly on very easy short pitches. To end the day Dan suggested a "convoy solo" of Twinkler. It had been several years since I had last soloed a multi-pitch and I remember feeling some concern. However VS was comfortably within my limit so objectively the risk was low. Dan soloed often at that time. I acquiesced.

Convoy soloing - two or more people climbing unroped on the same route at the same time - was something I had done a few times prior to this. Especially ten years before at Arapiles, when I and most of my regular partners were very young and foolish. Aside from moonlight idiocy on D Minor, mentioned here, I got notably scared onsighting the 100m slab classic Brolga unroped. Both I and my friend Pete found it much more delicate, insecure and irreversible than we had anticipated. A unique aspect of this dumb activity is the potential opportunity to be private witness to your partner's death (or vice-versa) as a section is tackled which the other has already completed. I still remember Pete and I's nervous banter, wide-eyes and various "what the fuck are we doing" philosophising on that ascent.

Dan starting Twinkler

Twinkler lured us in gently with a traverse above the sea that was easy and unexposed. In fact, I recall absolute no issues with the route until the very end where a short overhanging crack connected a small ledge with the top of the cliff. Dan did this quickly as I waited on the ledge. As I followed, it dawned on me that the crack was awkward and would be a challenging down-climb. The final move was a pull over a bulge on to gently-sloping terrain. I recall some dependence on a shallow unsatisfactory hand jam. I paused and looked at Dan who I think mumbled something like "it is OK" but looked worried. I paused a while longer. It was a bad place to stop; fatiguing eventually. The fall would have been 30m or more toward the sea, possibly into water of uncertain depth, possibly on to boulders. I doubt more than a few seconds passed in total, but as the cliche goes: they were "long" seconds. Finally I pulled the move, there being no other options and of course it was fine.

Researching this blog post, I stumbled over notes on a 2017 ascent of Twinkler that may shed some light on why the route felt so marginal: "[pitch] 2 felt hard even for HVS 5a as per the 2013 guide to finish up the steep final crack though i might have done the finish to "Better Led than Dead" climbing up a steep crack above a small step down in the ramp, either way this was excellent and well protected but felt E1 5b."

Subsequent ascents

I have not been back to North Pembroke.

I have also not soloed anything substantial since 1997. Where we live now in Squamish, there is an abundance of solid moderate climbing, moments from our front door, that is very well-suited for unroped climbing. But I don't do it. I believe I could run many laps with the required focus but in time complacency would be inevitable. Best not to start.

A case in point: in September this year I slipped off the final 5.4 pitch of a ten pitch new route that I had helped establish a few months earlier and had already climbed five times. I was seconding with far too much slack in the system, so fell the length of the pitch to ledges, bruising a few ribs and opening a spectacular though unserious scalp wound. No big deal but it could have been much worse. If anyone had asked me in advance how many times I could climb that pitch without falling I would have estimated thousands, not five ...

the nostalgia project: Pumpido, Italy (1996)

The route

Bassiano © unknown

Bassiano is a limestone cliff about 60 km south-east of Rome, with a nice selection of single-pitch sport routes on pockets and tufa. Not world-class but definitely worthy. The sort of cliff residents in limestone-deprived areas would kill to have on their doorstep but locals take for granted. Pumpido is one of the more obvious lines. Once graded 7b+ (YDS 5.12c) it seems to have settled at 7b.

The context

In November 1996, I flew out to Rome to climb for three days. My frequent climbing partner, John Zangwill, had recently relocated there from London with his girlfriend - now wife - Pina. John (or "Z" as he was generally known) was the most enthusiastic of a group of north Londoners who I climbed with in the mid-90s. They were an older and more affluent crew then the climbers I had hung out with previously. They owned property, ate in proper restaurants during climbing weekends and had opinions on things like dishwashers. Despite these peculiar traits, they were strong climbers. Z, in particular, always out-climbed me.

Over the three days in Italy we climbed at three different cliffs. On the first day, Grotti, about 100km north of Rome. The rock was a weird conglomerate-limestone hybrid, similar to Margalef in Spain, with many small painful pockets. Grades appeared to start at 7b which made for a harsh warm-up. I achieved very little but recall Z coming close on a 7c.

The next day we visited Sperlonga by the sea about 100km south-west of Rome. Only 6's were climbed. The diary notes "v hot, topless girls sunbathing" - obviously challenging conditions.

Z, lunch stop somewhere near Rome

Climbing above the beach at Sperlonga

The ascent

On the third day we went to Bassiano. I liked the cliff immediately. Friendly red-hued rock with obvious holds. I did some warm-ups then tried Pumpido, which looked like the best line on the cliff and at that time still held the (for me) magic 7b+ (5.12c) grade. I had come very close to sending two routes at that grade at Rifle in Colorado earlier that year so motivation was very high. I was able to reach the chains with a few hangs on my first try. The diary mentions "superb pumpy sequence of deadpoint crux between pockets, steep pockets to tufa, then very crimpy finishing moves". I managed the redpoint on my next attempt. I was quite pleased with myself, and managed not to draw the obvious conclusion: that the route was over-graded.

My ascent of Pumpido

Subsequent ascents

I have not been back to Bassiano.

As a temporary local, John did of course return often. I recall that he was trying an 8a there and eventually succeeded. At that time, almost no-one I knew had climbed in the 8's. Furthermore, Z was well into his 40's. This made his achievement really inspiring. Then in my early 30s, I pessimistically believed that my best climbing years were already past. I filed Z's 8a send in my brain as an important reference and reason not to give up hope. In fact, it has stayed in my mind ever since, especially when I quit work to climb "full-time" six years ago.

Ironically a mutual friend recently told me that he did not think Z had ever climbed 8a. I was reluctant to believe this but in a way it no longer matters; whether myth or reality the idea has served its purpose.

And another thing ...

As I have got older, I have become increasingly impressed by people who have managed to combine climbing hard with high achievement in an unrelated area. To my mind, the outstanding example is Jim Collins. In the late 1970s he was one of the best climbers in the US, pushing standards with routes like Genesis and Psycho Roof in Eldorado canyon, and making the first solo of the Naked Edge. Mountain magazine published a sensational article about him around that time. These days he is better known as a pre-eminent management researcher and author, responsible for classic airport-bookshop titles like "Good to Great". However he has never stepped away from climbing and often references the sport in his writing. He even has a significant cameo role in Tommy Caldwell's autobiography The Push.

Amongst climbers I actually know, Z comes closest to Jim Collins status. I probably don't have the facts absolutely correct, but I believe his story runs something like this: studied maths to doctorate level at Cambridge and Bristol universities; shared a rope with some of the best British climbers of the 1970s and even had a route in Llanberis Pass named after him;  briefly worked for BP where he spotted a niche opportunity in software for oil exploration; quit to found a start-up with one partner; twenty years later their firm's database product had become the global standard for well logging data (in other words, most of the oil industry depended on it); sold out to a much bigger firm in the late 1990s but remained engaged with his product rather than retiring. I am in awe of all of this.