The Psyche, The Psyche.

After a weekend enjoying the glorious sunshine and limitless adventure croquet potential of Norfolk, the youth and I headed Roaches-wards. The forecast was a bit wetter than would be considered ideal, but careful interrogation of various sources of meteorological jiggery-pokery assured us that Staffordshire would be dry. We drove through a big something that looked a lot like rain on the way (it wasn't actually rain as I didn't have to turn the windscreen wipers on), and Ramshaw looked even greener and danker than usual, but we carried on regardless.

On walking up to the Lower Tier boulders there was enough dry rock to be getting on with, so we threw the mats down and warmed up on a few easy problems on Pine Tree Slab. Particular fun was had trying the slabby flake of Pine Marten one-handed. Subtle application of balance and other dark arts turned out to be the key, along with some one-handed mantling skillz. Funky stuff. So funky that the rain gods were displeased and decided to punish our madskillz with liberal application of rain.


"Help me, I can't see, I'm blinded by all of the dazzling win reflecting off these clean, dry rocks..."

Writing off the sunk costs of having already driven across the Peak, we tried Harborough, but it was wet, as was everywhere else. Arsebiscuits. We consoled ourselves with a few hours at The Works, although young James seemed to sabotage himself with a cup of tea which seemed to render him incapable of climbing anything. I was very sympathetic, and didn't spend the next hour laughing at his comedic failures. Oh no.