The Blind Man of Hoy

by Red Szell

  ‘I’m going to say something that I’d prefer not to be filmed but might give you an idea of why I find that question hard to answer. My mum died a couple of years ago and I gave the eulogy at her funeral. After that nothing else seems so frightening.’

  Keith nodded and we took a break to walk along the cliff so that he could recce a possible vantage point for a second camera the following day. Like me he had been a great fan of Blue Peter when he was growing up and confided that it had been a proud moment when he’d at last earned a Blue Peter badge, for filming the programme’s 2008 expedition.

  We chatted about the glory days of John Noakes and how we’d followed Chris Bonington’s exploits as kids. Keith’s first commission as a freelance adventure cameraman had been a documentary in the Himalayas with Sir Chris. ‘After delivering the film to the BBC, I was walking back out across the car park wondering what on earth I was going to do next when I bumped into a producer I knew coming the other way. He asked whether I was free to come and work on a programme he was about to start making. That was The Edge!’ He’d been on a roll ever since.

  Back at the promontory I could just make out the helmets that Andres and Matthew were wearing, bright flecks of manmade colour against the ochre rock. They had made short work of the next pitch and were up amongst the nesting seabirds.

  ‘Ah, fulmar-vomit time. I wonder whether any of them have been hit yet,’ Keith said with relish and put his eye to the long lens. ‘Yup, looks like Nick’s been got.’

  Feeling more relaxed I settled down for his final few questions which finished with the influence of the Paralympics on raising awareness of disability.

  ‘I think the age of pushing disability under the carpet and hoping it will disappear is over, but the struggle for recognition as equal people goes on,’ I opined. ‘And if getting to the top of the Old Man can help push the struggle a little bit further into the past, then all well and good.’

  Content with the fruits of his labours Keith turned his attention to the others. They were nearing the summit and he began to take photos as first Martin then Andres appeared against the horizon. As quickly as they’d popped up they were gone again to be replaced 20 minutes later by Nick and Matthew.

  ‘What on earth is he doing?’ I hadn’t thought much could surprise Keith, clearly Matthew could.

  ‘Oh shit, he’s not is he? Is he dropping his trousers?’

  ‘Worse, he seems to be stripping down to his Y-fronts.’

  ‘They’re not Y-fronts, they’re Speedos.’

  ‘Why? Does he do this a lot?’

  ‘Only for charity. Some of the guys he swims with at Highgate Ponds told him they’d double their sponsorship money if he got to the top of the Old Man in his budgie smugglers.’

  ‘He’ll want photographic evidence then,’ Keith sounded amused and bent his eye to the viewfinder to catch the money shot. I raised my hands overhead and applauded beside him incredulous that Matthew had done it and praying that he was securely anchored.

  A couple of minutes later the summit was deserted again. With Nick and Matthew preparing to ab off, Keith began the lengthy process of packing away his gear. As he did so he told me about filming the Galician percebes gatherers in Spain who, between waves, sprint out into the surf beneath the cliffs to where the largest gooseneck barnacles grow, harvest a few, then sprint back to safety before the next breaker dashes them against the rocks. ‘That really is life on the edge,’ he said.

  Within the hour we’d been rejoined by the others. Matthew and Andres were elated, buzzing with snippets of drama from their ascent; enormous exposure, ‘thank god’ holds, amazing moves pulled off in the nick of time, loose rock and angry seabirds. They’d been gone slightly less than five hours and returned as Tom Patey once put it: ‘a little older in wisdom, a little younger in spirit.’

  Keith, though, had a wary eye on the gathering clouds and mindful of the slower pace I kept, suggested he and I made a start back to the hostel while the others de-harnessed and got themselves sorted.

  There was plenty of time before supper to relive Andres’ amazing E5 move out of The Coffin and onto featureless overhanging rock. Generally attested to as being ‘very bold’ it, like Matthew’s nervier exit and countless other memorable moments had been caught for posterity by Keith. All of which could have been very helpful to my own attempt the following day had I only been able to see them properly.

  Matthew drew me aside and said he’d had a word with Nick about him and not Martin climbing beside me. Nick was okay so long as Martin agreed. Though I hadn’t asked Matthew to, I might have guessed he would. As with the whole project, he simply didn’t do laissez-faire. Realising that someone needed to set the ball rolling he’d taken it upon himself. Job done, he departed in search of mobile coverage so he could tell his wife about his day, leaving me to talk to Nick and Martin.

  Nick was typically laid back. ‘I’m fine either way Red. It’s up to Martin though.’

  I bit the bullet, asked Martin to step outside and began with an apology. ‘I’m sorry Martin, this isn’t really very easy to say, but if it’s all the same with you I’d prefer it if Nick could guide me up the Old Man tomorrow and you lead. It’s nothing personal’ I continued awkwardly, ‘it’s just that, I don’t know, maybe because we’re the same age, or because we both grew up in Sussex and learned to climb at Harrison’s, I feel a bit more in sync with Nick. But if that doesn’t suit you for some reason, or messes things up, or you feel it’s your responsibility to be climbing beside me, just say because I’m only expressing a minor preference.’

  There was a long pause. ‘I suppose both jobs are of equal importance. I’m happy to lead again.’

  A wave of relief that this wasn’t going to be an issue came over me and I began to apologise all over again. Martin stopped me; his decision had been made, it was time to move on to supper.

  I did my best to join in with Matthew and Andres’ celebrations but, for the same reason that I only had a single glass of wine, felt limited by the fact that I had yet to share their triumph. Following the two of them outside later for a cigarette that I didn’t really want but at least kept the midges at bay, I discovered that their pleasure was not unalloyed. For some reason Martin had been in a hurry to leave the summit as quickly as possible. He’d forgotten to tell Andres to sign the logbook and insisted they abseil off before Matthew and Nick joined them.

  ‘So we didn’t even get a photo of the two of us together up there,’ grumbled Matthew.

  I shrugged. Suddenly I was very tired and the following day was going to be even longer and more exhausting. I had no energy for this. Stubbing the cigarette out half-smoked, I binned it and said I was going to turn in. On my way to bed I passed Keith showing Nick how to operate the Handycam that he, not Martin, would now be using to film me on the overhang.

  19

  Day 3, First Ascent of the Old Man by a Blind Man

  ‘At its finest moments climbing allows me to step out of ordinary existence into something extraordinary, stripping me of my sense of self-importance’

  – Doug Scott.

  Martin wanted us up and ready for 9.00 am. I’d slept well but woken with a gyppy tummy and spent a worrying 15 minutes on the loo hoping to rid myself of whatever hadn’t agreed with me, before pulling on the same clothes as the day before (for continuity’s sake).

  Matthew had made sandwiches for us all and they, as well as a flask of redbush tea and a hunk of the fruitcake Martin’s wife had baked for the climb, went into my daypack beside the water, chocolate and bonk bars that had taken up residence there.

  It looked to be another perfect day for climbing as we set out along the now familiar path. The previous night’s rain had not been heavy and had, according to Martin, stopped in the early hours. Between them the sun and a light wind were well on their way to clearing away any residual dampness, the seabirds wheeled lazily overhead and the corncrake was again in fine voice.

  On the promontory my entourage cam
e into its own. Under Keith’s careful scrutiny Matthew and Andres busied themselves connecting me to the various pieces of recording equipment I was to carry.

  Keith had swathed my climbing helmet in gaffer tape fixing a Go-Pro camera on top and various microphones inside it. Matthew fed the wires down my back and under my harness to Andres who connected them to the tiny MP3 recorder Keith handed him. This was packed into a bum-bag and strapped round my waist. I also had the chunkier Radio 4 machine for the audio-diary. Keith had offered to let me copy the files from his, but he was recording the whole climb and I had no idea how to edit them and knew Lee wouldn’t have time to sift through it all, so decided to stick with my original plan.

  At last all the levels had been checked and I was pronounced ready to go. A final hug from both Andres and Matthew, words of encouragement, a rope fixing me to Martin and I was off, arms outstretched beside me for balance as I lurched down the steep path towards the pounding surf below.

  It was hard slog. The path, such as it was, tacked at a steep angle about 300 feet across the face of the cliff as it dropped the 450 feet to the water’s edge. We were in the lee of the promontory and as we worked our way further down and across into the crook of the cliff the air grew humid and heady – almost tropical – from the rich array of seaside plants and flowers. There were even large butterflies flitting around us. Such an abundance of plant life did at least mean there was plenty for me to grab hold of on the many occasions I slipped or stumbled on the loose rocks underfoot.

  Keith was getting loads of footage that would leave his viewers in no doubt as to my visual abilities. This was less a scramble than a four-limb crawl and I was streaked with sweat before we were even halfway down.

  ‘If you tell me you need to do another take of that Keith, you’ll be pogoing on your tripod!’ I gasped between gulps of water, when finally we’d reached the perfect smuggler’s cave that lies at the head of the rockfall causeway.

  ‘No, don’t worry, it’s all good. I’ll just go and set up the camera.’ He strode away, showing no signs of fatigue despite having spent the last hour running rings around us to catch every angle of my descent while carrying both a large TV camera and a rucksack stuffed with all sorts of other kit.

  I recharged my energy levels with Mrs Moran’s exceedingly good cake and a Snickers bar.

  Nick, it transpired, was to carry my daypack and while Martin clipped a comprehensive range of cams and hexes to his rack, Nick removed all extraneous items (right down to a lip salve and spare roll of tape) from my bag, leaving only food, drink and MP3 recorder. I had just enough time to record a brief entry in my audio-diary, catching the jangle of Martin’s protection, the subdued roar of the sea and my breathless awe at the scale of the monolith towering above me, before Martin had us on the move again, scrambling across wardrobe-sized blocks that had once formed a 500-foot high sea-arch.

  We were a good 20 feet above sea level and I was all too aware of the water churning below as I clawed my way across the deep crevasses with Martin and Nick watching my every move like hawks.

  I made it with only minor cuts and bruises but was glad to flop on a flat block and allow my heart rate to calm as Martin and Nick prepared the ropes and checked the equipment. Keith gave me space until he saw me pull out my climbing shoes when he came over to conduct a quick ‘before the off’ interview. For the life of me I can’t remember what I said. I suspect I tried to convince him that I wasn’t that nervous but imagine my wide staring eyes told a different story.

  I was finally going to do it. After 30 years of dreaming about it, I was about to climb the Old Man of Hoy! Nervous energy crackled through me. I wasn’t scared as such; I knew no great harm should come to me with Martin and Nick there. The fact that Andres had narrowly missed being hit by a falling rock the previous day in some way was reassuring; that one at least wouldn’t be coming my way. What else was to come would have to be confronted when it came. For now I just wanted to get started; get some upward momentum and hopefully keep it going for 450 feet.

  Keith filmed me squeezing my feet into the battered shoes and then tying into the bright pink rope that Martin and I had decided was the colour I stood the best chance of seeing. A final safety check and Martin was climbing, the protection at his waist tinkling like wind chimes as he rose above us.

  Fifteen minutes later and it was my turn. The rock was warm and textured, like the armoured skin of some living prehistoric beast. The first move was a reassuringly easy pull up onto a large block, followed by a step onto a ledge with big holds all the way. I said something like ‘Onwards and upwards’ in my relief. Only another 444 feet to go, I’d made a good start and was finally on my way.

  The route took me off the east and onto the south face, which was bathed in bright sunshine. The heat was a little uncomfortable but the reflection was worse. RP leaves you with very light-sensitive eyes. Sufferers usually get cataracts as a result. If you’ve had those removed and your eyes, like mine, are blue, any bright light is exceedingly painful. I’d weighed up the pros and cons of wearing sunglasses but decided against, on the grounds of needing all the little vision I could get. Now with the rock glaring into my streaming eyes I was regretting the decision.

  Fortunately the pitch was little more than a big blocky staircase so I made rapid progress, only slowing at a particularly loose section where Nick advised me to test every hold before relying on it, and we soon reached the large belay ledge, known as The Gallery, where I could tuck myself into the shade of a niche.

  Martin checked I’d securely clipped into the belay and was off again, edging round a corner that led down to the traverse onto the east face, one of the Old Man’s trickier and most exposed sections.

  Nick paid the rope out slowly and with long pauses. Having caught my breath I began to rummage for the MP3 recorder, unsure of how long I might have till I was to follow.

  Self-consciously I murmured a ninety-second account of what we’d just done and how I felt, then tailed off. In spite of the sun there was something eerie about the ledge; pieces of kit from long-forgotten climbs, rusted pitons driven too deep into the rock to be removed, karabiners that had long ago lost their shine and were clipped through a dozen frayed nylon slings, no single one of which you’d trust your life to – all destined to remain there until the Old Man toppled into the sea.

  The recording was still running, picking up the buffeting wind and the peep-peeping of circling seabirds. I began to speak again:

  You might be able to hear the fulmars in the background. Fulmars are ‘foul gulls’ so-called because when you get close to them they’re liable to projectile vomit on you: a horrible, sticky, fishy-smelling goo which they use as self-protection and can project up to two metres apparently. Nick who is belaying Martin at the moment, has just been hit by a fulmar haven’t you Nick?’

  Yeah, I got shat on actually. At least it’s not quite as smelly as the vomit. But exactly the same place as yesterday on the same left side of my shoulder but yesterday was on my back, today it was on my front; not very pleasant. So I’m just matching up; I’ve got a white splodge front and back on my left shoulder.

  If you come back tomorrow you’ll get one on your right.

  The previous day, Andres had been so freaked by these angry birds (who make a sound like they are being throttled before they regurgitate over you) that he had opted to bypass one pair of them. In an effort to stay out of range, he had wriggled along a narrow horizontal crack beneath the ledge they guarded, and got stuck – much to everyone else’s amusement.

  Judging by the rope length still coiled at our feet, Martin still had some way to go to the next belay stance so I asked Nick:

  What do you have to do different with a blind or partially sighted climber?

  I guess talk a lot more. Erm . . . you kind of naturally do stuff with clients and you say ‘just look at me, see what I’m doing here’ if it’s a technical section you kind of explain it to them just by climbing it. But with yourself it
’s definitely a lot more of having to explain what happens. And it’s a good challenge you know it makes you do something that you don’t normally do which is to put into words what you’re doing physically.

  Finally, and a little unfairly, I asked him how he rated my chances of success. There was a long pause.

  I’d say, pretty much, I think, 100%. Basically you’re going to do it, there’s no two ways about it. I mean if it gets difficult then you’ll have a wee rest and then carry on. And you’ve got the total ability to do it. It’s not like you’re going to hit a brick wall and say ‘I refuse. I can’t do this. This is impossible.’ You’re just going to say ‘this is hard. I need a rest. Okay now I’m ready to do it.’

  It was precisely what I needed to hear. No platitudes, just a professional review of my abilities with a gentle reminder to quell my tendency to rush at things. If I listened to him and remembered not to try and force the route, I’d be fine.

  ‘You’ve got an audience,’ said Nick as I tucked the MP3 away. ‘There’s a wee crowd round Matthew, Keith and Andres.’ As on cue they began to wave and shout but what they were saying was lost beneath a heavy droning above St John’s Head. It filled the sky then passed low overhead, heading out to sea.

  ‘That was a big puffin,’ I said to Nick.

  ‘RAF Hercules’ he corrected. ‘Your own private flypast. He waggled his wings at us too!’

  From far above and round the corner we heard a faint, ‘Safe!’

  ‘Off belay!’ Nick shouted back, feeding through some slack. Then to me, ‘Shall I take that bag?’ Martin would be ready for us to start behind him in a minute or two.

  The crux pitch beckoned – the section that would decide whether I made it to the top or got thrown off this gigantic finger of rock. I had to believe in my own abilities; Nick and Martin did. So did Andres and Matthew – and they’d all shown me it was possible. Two hundred people had sponsored me to a total over £10,000 so far (Matthew had checked that morning). My progress was being followed on-line, by TV and radio. That, more than the long drop below, gave me a chill sense of exposure.