You wouldn't think the rocks had been there for as long as they had judging by the way I scrabble over myself to get back there. Its as if the crag is about to fall down, or that I am to leave and never return. I have a palpable sense of panic about when I will be able to get back to a project I feel I am about to do. Which could be described as ridiculous. I think I have become partly addicted to ticking stuff. Anyway. Friday - cinema. I want to see that film Bronson but she doesnt fancy it. She wants to see Marley and me, and I think that looks like tripe. We end up seeing Haunting in Connecticut, which isnt great. Its ok, but not great. I dont do horror very well.
Saturday starts at the crag with no name, and I have dreadful skin. Its in that weeping state where you chalk up and then your fingertip appears like Jack Nicholson through the door in the shining - "Here's Pinky!". Its not going to be a great day I fear. I'm actually wrong. I climb well, nipping up the pinch, sean's, jericho rd and cherokee ln, but not the Hulk which I cant even pull on to. I'll be back... possibly today.
Sunday dawns beautiful. She and I go for a walk down Cheedale which looks largely dry. There are people climbing on Embankment (rab) and Max's wall (pickles, smitton and vicky hurley), and the Cornice is wet. Still looks awesome! Stop at the tor on the way home and see a cast of tens clustered around the right hand end. Stay and chat for a few minutes and then jet home to chat. We walk up to stanage pole to watch the sunset to finish the day.
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