Andrew Healey turns to the dark side.

I really hate queuing. Supermarket queues, traffic queues, damn call centre queues, I hate them all. Why? I guess it’s because I’m just not too fond of people.
A few of them here and there I can cope with, but they’re every-bloody-where I go, talking on their phones. dithering in their cars, getting in my way. That’s why I escape to the countryside. There’s more sheep than people, and a timid sheep will always step aside to let you past.

But there’s a problem. The great outdoors seems to be getting busier and busier. How often can you spend a day in the hills without ever bumping into another living soul? I head out looking for that feeling of oneness that comes from isolating yourself from people and becoming a part of the landscape. But just try finding that in the Peak, Snowdonia, or the Lakes these days. Not a chance.

It hasn’t always been like this though. Wordsworth was also an outdoors fan, “Once again do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, that on a wild secluded scene impress thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect the landscape with the quiet of the sky.” Good job he’s not around today, the only secluded cliff I’ve found recently was a little quarry down the road from Pule Hill, a tactical retreat from the hoards of kite flyers and model plane mavericks. A few amenable climbs but hardly the “steep and lofty cliffs” I was seeking. No, it seems that there’s no way you can guarantee seclusion in the countryside these days. I blame it on the Kinder mass trespass - bring back the gamekeepers.

So what’s a misanthrope to do? The answer came, as it usually does, at the bottom of a glass. After a few Friday evening pints whilst trying to find a seat in the Vaynol Arms, we ambled back to the Cromlech boulders, our personal castle for the weekend. The moon was in full swing, and the only sign of fellow humans was the occasional passing car. Awesome. Just the way I like it. Relaxing on the top of the largest boulder, we decided that we should really make the most of this all encompassing calm, the boulders were empty, it was time to climb. Boots? Tick. Chalkbag? Tick. Headtorch? Tick.

Climbing in the dark is probably not for all tastes, but for us it was a revelation. Even the easier problems become a totally different proposition, and those ankle-snapping landings become well, more or less of a worry depending on the level of your imagination. Addicted, the next night we headed up towards Dinas Mot. An Mp3 player, portable speakers and a Ferry Kausten chillout mix provided the soundtrack. When progress was blocked by an unexpected cliff, the only way was up. There was a brief moment of doubt as I gingerly pulled over the top with one hand in a puddle and the other clutching a clump of grass, the ground somewhere a long way away. If I’d had an audience I’d probably have panicked, but there was no one else for miles. Serenity was ours for the taking.

After that revelation of a weekend it became clear as day that night climbing was the only way forward. We bought Supertorch - a big hunk of manhood of a torch with three million-candle strength. Yes three million. That’s like taking all the candles from all the churches in England and combining them into one almighty being of a candle. When you shine it up at Stanage from the road you can light up the crag like it’s Christmas. I love our Supertorch.

Fully armed with the new power to make darkness light, night-time climbing escapades became standard. A new set of ethics evolved; if Supertorch made things too easy, it was time to revert back to LEDs for the white point. And if that still wasn’t challenging enough, there was the coveted and worthy black point - no light for aid other than the moon.

Peak bouldering became a whole new ballgame. No need to skive off work to try and catch the last half-hour of daylight with all the other office boys at the Plantation. Better friction at night too. Just think of Crescent Arete by moonlight – tasty. And Stoney is actually quite seductive in the dark without the quarry trucks thundering past. No, really it is.

But as usual where I lead others follow. The first I realised was on an evening Remergence session (a great night venue by the way) when headlamps beams and whoops of encouragement began strafing the valley from general direction of West Side Story. Within weeks there were people swapping location ideas and torch recommendations over the Internet. People. People. Damn people. Why can’t they leave me alone?

As sure as night follows day there was bound to be a disaster at some point. When you’re pushing to the limit there’s bound to be. Mine came at Chatsworth on a beautiful snowy evening. After a trip to the Robin Hood we went adventuring and for some reason I ended up balancing along a fallen tree spanning a bottomless chasm. The tree unexpectedly split and after a brief moment of terror I landed ten feet down astride a sharp, sharp boulder. Oh how my friend laughed as I spent the next few minutes rolling round on the ground, screaming that I’d ruptured a testicle. I’m wincing at the thought right now. But I’m just glad for one thing, that there was no one else around - they would have been queuing up to see it.

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