Andi Turner remembers the ride of his life on the Magic Flute.

I plunge my fingers deeper into the pocket and feel around for anything that might be useful.

I pull out a fistful of change - a good mix, not just coppers and fives, but frayed filter tips and a screwed up receipt from the garage. I fish out a fifty and drop it into the slot. The machine responds with a rapid metronomic tick. The red analogue display reveals a three.

A stranger approaches from the bar. He hands me another ten bob and spouts, “Are you going to select a good one? Stick on 33:6, you choose the rest as long as it’s not crap.” His cropped grey hair and leather-like skin do nothing to inspire my confidence, and as such I decide that it’s probably best to listen to him, and make sure my choices are half decent. He’s smaller than me, but looks the type who’d give you a good run for your money. Still, a forced out half-smile is the only thanks he gets. I’m grateful of course, but don’t want to seem soft.

He half winks, flicks his nose with his thumb and points two fingers at me with his gun-shaped hand. Giving me a knowing clap on the shoulder, he swivels on his Cuban heels and returns to his pew.

The Wilkes’ Head had always harboured these kinds of tenants; it was a warm, friendly place. Everything was authentic and had its own place, from the numerous hand pump labels which adorned the walls, to the guitars, banjos and washboards perched high up below the cornicing. The three rooms each had their own character - and characters. The front room had the fire, but locals seldom sat there as it was too far from the action; the back room funnelled down to a darkened point and let everyone sit within listening distance of each other. The middle room housed the bar. It was here that I preferred to sit and see everything going on.

“What will make a good warm up?”

I thumped in 33:6 to keep my man happy, and to give me a bit more time. I finally settled on a card - 55:6. I take a couple more familiar selections, each one a code memorised like a familiar phone number. Each one is good. Their familiar rhythms get me in the groove; I click my fingers and feel myself getting warm.

There was one selection of numbers that I knew off by heart.

When I’d played it out for the first time, I often wondered if I’d ever be able to better it. There was something transcendental that happened at the time, that I knew was beyond what I was supposed to get out of climbing. I knew I had to succeed on it, something told me that I needed it, that it would stay with me forever.

I plug in the code and wander back to sit down on the bench. I know how it starts so I don’t want to be standing.

As I sit there, the friends I’d first done this route with have materialised and are already waiting for me. They look out of place sitting there in their harnesses, one tanned from a week of weak sunshine, the other wearing a jumper hitched uncomfortably up at the back. I look past them and the bar dissolves away, I can see the sea a long way down.

It’s really starting to kick in now. I look down. The spit and sawdust of the Wilkes’ Head floor has been replaced with limestone gravel, ground off the nearby ridge by thousands of years of steady erosion. I blink a few more times to help my eyes adjust to the light. The bench turns cold and hard and is replaced by uneven limestone, I shuffle to find a comfy spot but end up sitting on the guidebook instead. I feel the cool of the breeze catch and chill the small of my back where my rucksack had allowed sweat to soak into my vest.

I know that everything is about to wash over me now, almost all my senses are now working. I feel the freshness, can see the entire vista; the silence only broken by the sound of the coiled rope being dropped on the dusty floor and an expletive coming from Mark’s mouth about the walk-in.
I love being here.

The sun is hanging low in the sky, casting long shadows, but not threateningly so. We have plenty of time yet and use it to take in the view, and the peace. The sky is an arctic blue and the hillside soft white and pink, made up of the petals of the almond groves; the smell of the nectar flavours the sweet air. I pick up the tinkle of the water running down the channel in the rock behind me.

Turning round and the view is very different. A vast wall of orange limestone fills my view. It’s the very reason why I choose to come back here so many times. If I analyse my reasoning it’s probably more to do with the whole experience, who I was with, why I was there, what had come before. But I suppose it’s really for the route.

The route I’d selected scared me a little, even though I’d always been a trad climber. The whole wall was big and overhanging, the line incredibly exposed, even despite the line of bolts - a single drip of limestone which hung on the blank wall. It had three parts: an initial powerful and balancy wall which always felt insecure, followed by a tufa which on average was maybe up to three inches wide, six inches deep and thirty feet long. It ended at a curtain of flowstone: above this, a final taxing groove led to the belay.

The Magic Flute. I pull on my trusty boots, right foot first to respect the tradition I’d had from when I was a younger climber. Rub chalk into my palms and count through the clips I’ll be taking. It’s funny how I still check my knot as a force of habit - a bit like chalking up on a no-hands problem. I set off and my fingers hurt, the skin tired after seven days climbing in the sun.

The moves come easily to my cold body. I was up first - my job was to put in the clips first then come down and have a proper go. I taste the metallic tang of fear in my mouth as I go up and up. For some reason, this route oozes exposure and I find myself continually checking harness, knot and belayer. Mark seems to be concentrating; but then he doesn’t have much of a choice as I’m sitting on every second bolt. Niall is down amongst the stunted palms and rosemary bushes taking photographs, at least that’s what I think he’s doing. Finally at the belay, I clip in, shout down, and tentatively weight my harness.

Back on the ground we talk. We keep referring to how peaceful it is. We’d been in a large party and this was our first time we’d escaped the clutch of the group. It felt so refreshing. The temperature was faultless, just warm in the sun but each breath of air just keeping you cool, never quite enough to produce a shiver or a goose bump. Time passes by. I rest while they climb, then I belay.

Eventually I set off yet again for my first redpoint. I can feel the experience is now approaching its climax, which saddens me a little as I know it’ll soon be over. The reach out rightwards to grasp the bottom tip of the tufa is completed and a wave rushes through me of excitement. Huge meaty pinches and fully crimping laybacks lead up the scaly rat’s tail of rock above me. Amazed, I find I’m at the black flaring curtain at the head of the flowstone, the tufa section almost complete but the wall steepening. I slap up with my hand and the stone responds by ringing out its knell like a porcelain gong. I frantically shuffle my feet around on the shining white rock and pop up again to get a water filled finger jug on the forehead of the hanging boss. Chalk floats off in tiny lumps from beneath my fingertips and swirls in Brownian motion. Another heave and I haul my way to a standing position on top of the flute; I balance my body by pressing myself deep into the surface of the rock. As my arms try to recover it feels like the lactic is being tipped from my arms into my churning stomach.

I start trowelling up the jugs. Big reaches between cracks which open up inside to reveal monster buckets. Each is filled with the ancient grass of previous nestings and levelled with a fertile compost. A final balance out right and it’s over. The large golden ring is clipped and I start my steady decent back to earth. Niall and Mark seem really chuffed for me, and I kick away from the rock spinning on the narrow thread which suspends me from the stopping point high up on the wall above.

I notice the light dimming and the stale warmth of the Wilkes’ coming back to me. Looking over to my left the display on the jukebox flashes zero and I hear my coins drop into the metallic box. Finished. I’d not have a chance to belay again to get the clips back, or to walk back to the car while the sun dips below the horizon. I’d not get to stop the car on the way down the hill, and just get out and soak up the view and absorb that feeling which you only get on the last day of a holiday. I’d made my mind up about lots of things that trip and I knew there’d be changes when I got home. I thought about all of this as I came around, back where I’d sat. Alone on the bench.

I grab my jacket, say “Tarra” to the barman and step through the double doors out into the clear white snow and the permanent evening light. It’s crisp, but warm, perfect conditions again.
Maybe I’d find my other experiences on the jukebox down in the Mucky Duck. It was good to know that all my climbing experiences had been logged for me on that particular jukebox; I could now go there whenever I fancied a climb. There were many other pubs to try too, with a vast array of other memories to try and find and relive.

The higher being now responsible for guarding my soul had thought things out well - giving me that memory in that, my favourite, pub. I knew he’d have hidden some other ones elsewhere too, and I’m sure he’d have left me the clues in my life to help me relive them. I just had to find them. But that was OK, I had plenty of time on my hands. I had eternity.

Andi Turner is the new BMC Access Rep for Staffordshire. He likes the Wilkes’ Head, beer, and grit.

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