Well, Now There's Posh for You!!

Fred Smith.

His name was Y Ap Hughes. He was the prosecuting council for Caernarfonshire in the days before the local populace was bewildered by the decision to change all things traditional; it was still not possible to buy a drink on Sundays unless you were in the know. Y Ap certainly was and we on occasion took advantage of him.

Needless to say Y Ap became Yappy, not inappropriately, as he was indeed a rather happy person with a round rather cherubic face, a ready smile or laugh and perpetually smiling eyes. Whether or not they smiled in court is outside my knowledge as I escaped the majesty of the local law in my misdemeanours. But I suspect he was a very efficient prosecutor.

He owned a MG sports-car which made him something special in the late forties, particularly as he seemed never to be short of petrol coupons. Petrol, like everything else at the time, was in short supply and on ration. Everything, that is, except unclimbed rock. The Pass was the private playground of a few, mostly from the Climbers Club and the Rucksack Club. As a Wayfarer I was somewhat of a rarity but nonetheless fully integrated into the Pass scene. Yappy, by virtue of his cheerful manner and his M.G.(of which we also took advantage ) was a popular companion on and off the rock; but also because of his unflappable nature and his excellent rope management technique which gave much comfort to his leader (he rarely took to the sharp end).

He was very Welsh, a solicitor with a legal mind honed by courtroom conflict. He did not rush into responding to comment; rather he considered carefully his next phrase or reply. When it came it was usually pungent, witty or erudite. He was, in short, an excellent second who could be relied upon to stay silent when appropriate, and especially at times when the route was not going according to plan, which, in my case was the norm rather than the exception.

On this occasion we were engaged on a rock face trying a new line which I had previously seen but rejected because of its unpleasant appearance. Y Ap, never one to refuse an opportunity to get someone in trouble, (being a prosecuting council) talked me into trying it. It wasn't a long route but most definitely rather steep and intimidating. In due course the hemp was securely knotted about my waist, the pebbles in my pocket and two pieces of line hung about my neck ready to be looped over any convenient spike that might appear, or threaded about a carefully placed pebble. Pro in those times was taken as a luxury not a necessity but eagerly seized when offered.

After drying the soles of my ex-WD rubbers I ventured onto the rock and casually remarked - to indicate that I was in no way nervous of what lay ahead - "By the way, did you know that Myfanwy, daughter to Roberts the butcher, is getting married?" Silence. (I thought this might be because he was a little smitten with the young lady in question). The first pitch was even harder than anticipated and all thoughts of Myfanwy were driven from my mind as I struggled with a greasy crack in a shallow groove with little protection as my pebbles were too small. At thirty feet the ground looked intimidatingly far below. The maxim of the time - the leader does not fall off- was easier to say than to observe and observing it at that moment felt distinctly academic. At forty feet I was in serious difficulty stuck below a small shelf overhang. Yappy was cheerfully relating a recent court case but I confess I heard or recalled little of it. After a desperation lunge the overhang was surmounted and easier ground led to a belay and stance.

As always, Yappy floated up. His face wreathed in a great smile until I suggested he might lead through. He declined. Changing over the belay was my usual cock up. Hemp rope at its best was a pig to handle and when wet was a right bastard. It was wet because of a pool of water more commonly described as a grass ledge upon which we stood. Little was said as we untangled the untangleable. The next pitch looked most uninviting, a crack led to a bulge where a black streak of water followed the obvious and only weakness, a thin crack which at least looked as though my pebbles would come into play. Comforted by this thought I vainly tried to dry the rubbers before launching myself at the crack. It wasn't too bad. I am no Joe Brown when it comes to cracks and I value the skin on the back of my hands rather more than they who had cut their milk teeth on grit. Nonetheless, when needs must it is a case of sod the skin and the pain.

When committed to the pitch and struggling with the bulge which appeared to lead to an easier looking slab Yappy said "I didn't know she was pregnant". "Who?" I asked as the previous conversation had been driven from my mind by the emotions raised by the previous pitch and the apprehension growing apace as I neared the bulge. "Myfanwy" he replied "Roberts the butcher's daughter". At that moment my mind was more occupied with staying alive as the bulge proved to be fully up to expectation, hold-less, unprotected and very exposed, and I was struggling to get a pebble from my trouser pocket without letting go with either hand for more than a second or two. The problem was that the pebbles were in the right hand pocket and my right leg was on a high hold thus compressing the pocket. I vowed to share them between both pockets in future. I even swore to give up this stupid sport if ever I reached terra firma. Yappy, upon hearing this avowal commented "More firmer - less terror". I assume that as a solicitor he was versed in Latin or Greek or whatever language the phrase was in and his was a literal translation.

Eventually the pebble was placed, the line looped around it and, feeling a little more secure, I pondered his comment about the butcher's daughter. Even for Yappy the time between my comment and his response was somewhat extended and I began to wonder if he was more affected by Myfanwy's forthcoming nuptials than I had thought. Once again the next few feet cleared my mind of such inconsequential matters. There is nothing like fear to focus the mind on the things that matter and fear was certainly present at that moment as I was now fighting the black streak of moisture which oozed over what few holds there were. Pebble runners have never been my favourite security since watching a series of them unzip whilst second to John Lawton on a serious climb. Y Ap seemed oblivious to the streak and appeared to find all the holds I obviously missed, arriving on the ledge smiling but thoughtful when his turn arrived.

On the stance the inevitable tangle and frustration ensued and it wasn't until I had started up the final section that I remembered to reply to his last comment.

"Myfanwy pregnant" I responded, "No, she isn't - there's nothing like that". This third pitch was almost enjoyable. There were holds, dry rock, a reasonable angle and even a flake around which I joyfully placed my sling. After the tribulations of the former pitches this was something to savour and I devoted my mind to enjoying it to the full. As always the earlier panics had been forgotten and the route had taken on a mantle of purity and my incompetence had lost the 'in'. It was now a beautiful climb ascended in fine style. Definitely one to recount in the Gwryd that night over a pint of Worthington 'E'.

Yappy duly trotted up to the top, his face wreathed in smiles and in his ever polite manner congratulated me on our new route. As I coiled the rope into its usual rigid wheel shape he removed his glasses and whilst polishing them he said. "So Myfanwy isn't expecting then?". "No, she is not, according to my information", I replied.

He replaced his glasses, picked up the wheel shaped rope, paused for a moment and said "Not expecting, getting married. Now there's posh for you"