The ancestral lineage of John Cooke

Sunday the 31st
At best it was going to be the last chance saloon - a slightly desperate attempt to catch some waves before the normal summer flatness returned. The signs weren't perfect, but in my optimism to surf I managed to convince myself it'd be worthwhile. Sometimes my aspiration and desire affects my judgement, and this was one of those times. I drove for 4hrs to splash around for an hour and a half in a dying swell with the wrong tides and not really catch anything, other than a whiff of agricultural effluent.

However, no experience is entirely negative, and inspite of this ozone burning exercise in futility, I've learnt that there should be minimum conditions present before embarking. These, I think - are 4ft, 8seconds and light off shore winds. And the right tides for wherever you head.

Dylan and I went to the WCJ cornice on Tuesday the 2nd. Bumped into some Scottish heroes when we arrived and then realised we had no belay device! Well done. Thankfully some kind chaps had one to lend and the day wasn't lost. Ropegunned Brachiation dance for them by means of mild exchange and then got on the disillusioned Glue machine. This is a route I first looked at the day I did Yorkshire 8b. I got on it for something to do, and to avoid rumble. It was filthy and I spent an hour cleaning it, but made little difference as it was so minky. This year someone more capable has put the time in and its restored to a reasonable state (so whoever you are - nice one! bolt heads want tightening up mind). Dylan has a great session flash go, getting to the vulcan pocket from the deck but not doing the move. I keep getting there and running out of steam. Anyway, we have a nice time, noone does it and we leave as it goes dusky (now 9pm).

My throat felt a bit sore that night, and by wednesday day its razor blades and I'm uncommunicative and grumpy. Thursday and Friday are mired in snot and even on saturday I'm still flaccid. Sunday I get a short unexpected pass but noone to climb with, so I furtle off down Blackwell dale to go on Paint it black. Fully expecting to be rubbish I'm pleasantly suprised, and whilst the pressure in my sinuses makes prolonged sequences of hard moves a bit uncomfortable, I can still do a bit and manage to scrape my way up the problem (but not before a thousand skin depleting goes). Again, a fair scene of dreadlocked puy jugglers, the sound of digeridoo music fills the air and the smell of agricultural by products once again meets my nostrils. I meet a man who is not John Cooke, but could be his doppelganger, and i accuse him of such, but this is not the first time he has been so challenged, and he puts me right. Apparently he is half thai, where John Cooke is half philipino. So now you know.

Monday night, as you know - is board night. Ned was bored though, and it was a nice day. He wanted to go out, not to climb, but just to get out of the house... I saw my chance, and I leapt on its back and rutted its leg. Ned got to walk to the WCJ Cornice, and I got to get back on the Glue Machine. Although not one of the Peak's finest lines, the climbing is good and I knew I could finish it. A tick in the bag is worth two in the book. I think it feels about 7b/+ route up to and including the last clip. THen you have a tricky move into some ok holds before a lurch to the belay. My first go I'm not warmed up properly and on my second go I get it done. I strip the route and we walk back, getting home for 1930.

The honey monster was away, so I went down the wall to meet another monster. A pinching monster. One whose claimed to be injured for far too long, only to be exposed hustling his way around the comp wall after dark. Like a shark patroling the black depths he paces the mat beneath the comp wall, watching and waiting for a unsuspecting seal pup to flipper into range (leah?), then, like a black missile, jet propelled out of the shadows he hurtles towards his prey, the vice like grip clamps down and crushes the weak back into obscurity. Hurty Elbone my arse.