A promised climbing tale. This was once published for real in the Oxford University Journal of Mountaineering…aka by my mates…and for at least one Anglesey aficionado follower…you know who you are, no need to call you out (the horror! the horror!) but I imagine your Anglesey adventures are MUCH saner than this.
It was raining in Wales again and there were two options: point the car towards Anglesey and hope for the best, or literally shovel shit all day. Peter Hill’s friends had graciously opened their barn to Chris Bull, Rob King, and myself for a long weekend in Snowdonia, and if we didn’t go climbing, well, there was a barn full of cow shit that needed “‘tendin’to” as we would say where I am from. Being from a small horse farm in Kentucky, I have shoveled my fair share of shit, and its about as bad as it sounds. So we packed up and headed to the island. The rest of the crew was keen for Gogarth. I was not. Had we gone there I am sure we would have still been shoveling shit. Mine. Thus we settled on Holyhead Mountain. While not actually raining when we pulled into a abandoned parking lot, the fog was as “thick as split-pea soup.”
