A Giant Catamaran of Rocks

Cratcliffe Tor. Two sheer-sided prows and, on the deck above, a Zen garden of boulders.

Being first. Having this place to myself. Feeling the joy of it. Feeling a slight pang, as well. What if I try something and slip?

Well, slipping won't matter in my case, given that I’ll only attempt some easy problems.

I'm coming to have a look, to see what the massive prows of Owl Gully are like. And, I can tell you, they loom above you like the front of some giant catamaran.

Cratcliffe Tor is hiding above me as I close in. It watches from behind the trees. There is a ten minute amble up from the road, along the ancient Derbyshire Portway. People have been walking this track since the Bronze Age, overlooked by Cratcliffe rocks on one side and by Robin Hood's Stride on the other (of which more later).

Cratcliffe in its hide-away

There’s no mist but the air is heavy with something. The ghost of a mist, hanging around the tops of the trees. I think that here it must be almost-raining much of the time.

The last section of the approach is through a steep wood. There are oak and beech growing between the rocks. Long-tailed tits are bobbing through, squeaking like un-oiled bicycle wheels.

I walk through Cratcliffe’s garden of boulders. You could rake out the gaps in between and prune the bushes and this would have a Zen-like feel.

Except that you wouldn’t want to do that. You’d want to leave it untouched, leave it with its lonely, lost-in-space appearance.

The first boulder is the Egg, spotted with smears of chalk. A hillock rises behind, branches poking in all directions. The whole arrangement is protected from any excessive light.

The Egg

A loop, plenty more boulders. They are somewhat greasy today but the grit is still rough and easy to hold. I come out on a wide platform above the prows of Owl Gully.

At first this looks like a safe area for a gathering, a picnic. Let the kids run around. Then I go to inspect some oddly formed rock. It stretches out in dozens of worn protuberances. Fat fingers. It’s the edge. Suddenly, I’m staring down the crazy, V-shaped cliffs of the Gully. No, not safe.

There is a sensation of opening out. The over-arching branches are gone, the sky is there to see, the rock has flattened beneath my feet, then it falls away to nothing.

I breathe out. The view is over golden trees and farmland to hilltops beyond. On a warm weekend this plateau might be thronged with climbers. But it’s early on a Friday in November. I am still the only person here.

The way turns back to the Egg. Beside it there is a narrow path which dives down to the base of the Gully. Stand inside the V and it feels as though these high walls are closing in. The rock rises in neat blocks, with regular upwards and sideways cracks, as if a mason has carved the huge pieces and lifted them into place.

Owl Gully, looking up the route known as Fern Hill. The left hand side is a super-challenging E9 called The Groove

I clamber up to the Egg once more and make for a jumble of boulders a few hundred yards away. This is Robin Hood’s Stride. The boulders are strangely shaped, like sculpted forms. Two columns stick up from the top, lords of the jumble.

Robin Hood's Stride

I sit below one of them to eat my sandwich. This column has a fluted upper section. It reminds me of a big, old electric transformer which has been turned to stone.