Calpe and Surrounds - One Man's Birds Eye View
Having studied in depth every nuance of the emergency card, calculated which exit would give me the greatest hope of escape in the unlikely event we landed on water, and the size of the people I'd have to trample to get there first, it was time for another white knuckle flight of the Valkyries. You see, I hate flying, ... either by plane or on the end of 10 mm of Mammuts finest.
But that's what the next two weeks were all to be about -- or so goes the theory of KMC 'ard men, Ian P, Simon M, and Goose. Head south to Paella land for a pre-season taste of sun- drenched rock, bolts and gravity, whilst folk at home freeze their pinkies on grit, uttering vague and unconvincing myths of improved friction in the cold.
Just three of us (Joan, Chris Ivory, and me) boarded the 6.45am Napalm run that Tuesday, the others having, landing gear permitted, arrived the Saturday before. Anyway the Gods were with us, we were disgorged shaken but not stirred into Alicante airport, where, in true RockFax style (p.9), we successfully commandeered a Vauxhall Corsa for a miserly £120 for the fortnight. Leaving the carnage of burning plane airframes behind we headed North for 15 km to a free flat Joanie had managed to wangle from one of her patients who desperately need pain killers, though she insisted it belonged to her friends, parents, -a likely story.
Despite plans of rock in the afternoon, the day passed with a long beach walk beneath a strange (at least to those in Manchester) golden orb thing in the sky, dipping toes in the sewer sea, and gradually forgetting work, commuting, bills, and the election. The following few days saw us at Cabreras and Sella where we met up with the A team and Chris (Williamson) and Vinny. All were climbing in there inimitable style: Linda doing her vertical version of Darcey Bussel, Julie gliding ethereally to distant echoes of Bob Dillon and Joni Mitchell, Lucy all enthusiasm and gusto, Mike eyeing up the potential for ambulance chasing should anyone's gear fail, Chris W (sporting a struck match haircut) grumbling about late starts, the weather, the rock, the water ....... and Vinny practising for the onset paraplegia - all arms and no legs. Us three in the mean time pottered along: Joanie (my missus as 'Chris I' continually referred to her) sporting a fine pair of electric blue lycra shorts (ask me for the slides) and cursing at me for any well meaning advice I offered at times of vertical difficulty - oh how the path of true love twists and turns. 'Chris I', on the other hand, demonstrated the failure of the Geordie mind to grasp even simple concepts like fear as each time we unleashed him he hurtled up anything with the vague glint of a bolt only to be followed by the inevitable winger.
On Saturday the A team (plus C & V) departed and we spent three lazy hazy days visiting Roconco (good for tanning) and the beautifully situated Salinas. But our halcyon days were to be short lived. On Tuesday another silver bird miraculously dumped a replacement cargo of slightly bruised climbers (used in its widest sense) on to the Alicante tarmac. Within a couple of hours the sleepy spring resort of Calpe was experiencing Dante's Inferno (usually saved for Benidorm's summer) as the Team from Hell roared into its tranquil streets. Throwing petrol onto the fire 'Chris I's geordie drinking buddies also landed on Tuesday and staggered north to Calpe leaving a trail of parched Spanish towns in their wake. And so began our contrasting second week.
I joined up with Pete an education psychologist, and together, with improvised clip sticks, we laid siege to a selection of routes. The others alternated partners depending on consciousness, but still managed to drag themselves out of bed for the odd spot of climbing. We re-visited Sella, called in at the picturesque El Aventador, visited Feradao, a whizz bang all singing all dancing mohican haircut of a crag, and pottered at the local Jalon valley. Much frivolity was to be had, interrupted occasionally with a spot of the vertical stuff. Mary, never afraid to put her head on the block (surname Stuart - say no more!!) was to be spotted trashing the nerves of those around her as she launched up under graded route after under graded route - and all in amazingly good humour considering it appeared to those of us on the ground that her maker was uncomfortably near at hand. Levi in typical US style tried to conquer everything (especially small undefended routes) and in untypical US style was surprisingly successful. Cathy only donned her harness as an alternative to here bikini so as to avoid obvious tanning lines. Anne pushed out the boat culminating in a fine F6a lead, and Al miraculously completed all routes with glimmers of daylight still in the sky (though perhaps this was sunrise rather than sunset??).
In addition to these fine KMC folk, Old Nick's team also included Cathy's Dad and a party of more mature (in age only) climbing exponents who, according to their behaviour and with a few dour exceptions, were all well ensconced in their second childhood - at around the fresher just left home stage. 'Chris I' and his mates spent a couple of days on the crags with us all before declaring they were ready to move on to the big stuff - heading off to the hills in search long walks and quiet villages where they could pass from alcoholic haze through to oblivion. They returned several days later with tales of adventurous mountain treks, festivals and sultry, but amenable, senoritas - though, going by there newly acquired 'kiss me quick' hats some of us doubt that they actually progressed beyond Benidorm and various Tracey's from Essex.
And so the final day of climbing arrived. Some set off for a day of gentle recovery at Sella, whilst others headed for an epic ascent of the Puig Campana (with Al Metelko!!!!!!!); meanwhile Pete and I took in the sun on the spectacular Costa Blanca route up the Penon - a climb with cream on it as Joanie met us at the top with shoes, sustenance and a patient ear as Pete and I childishly relived, enthused and exaggerated every move up the cliff.
The following day meant yet more aerial antics as Dan Dare aided by Biggles wrestled another rusting wreck across the sky before lumbering earthwards towards Manchester. Two weeks of clipping bolts in the sun with friends over (and with no falls or submissions), just memories now to help lift the spirits of ailing grey days before the British summer sets our souls free to soar once more.
