Update

‘This paper [Coastal Climbs in North Devon] is intended for private circulation only…..It is important that it should not fall into the wrong hands.’ Clement Archer 1961

‘It is not my intention to encourage anyone to visit this wild and dangerous coastline.’ Terry Cheek 1998 from Exmoor [a guidebook to the climbs of the Exmoor coast]

Autumn 2021 and just as our precious afternoon light is stolen once again (clocks gone back), I’ve started typing up reams of my hand-written route descriptions and notes from the 90s. The writing alone is a whole winter’s project, though inconclusive in itself given my objective to produce a suite of free, user-friendly Exmoor coast topos. The problem is that Exmoor’s climbing exploration pre-dates the self-servicing digital guidebook know-how of today which means I should not only recheck the hundreds of routes but also devise a set of crag-shot-topos for each site. That will be a long haul, but – if circumstances are such that it doesn’t happen – I can’t think of a more deserving area not to have a guidebook.  At least that scenario will preserve the area’s mystery – a draw for anyone wishing to rediscover the routes for themselves. Meantime should any party wish to sponsor this Exmoor coast guidebook series (its out-of-pocket costs), do please let me know. Again it’s a completely voluntary effort, which nonetheless feels right: climbing consumerism would be at odds with this unspoiled area and its quirky home-made guides from the heart. Just consider the above quotes from two of the area’s pioneers and the reservations and worries they must have had in recording their adventures. By the way, new members to the ‘I keep my clocks on BST’ Club are always welcome.

All users of any free Exmoor coast guides will be encouraged to make a donation to Exmoor Mountain Rescue.

Sir Robert’s Chair

‘This contorted mass of rock has two ‘windows’, one inside the core of a whale-back fold; both are through-caves, giving access to the shoreline below the ‘slabby-slippy’ slopes of Desolate Red.’ David Kester Webb, from the Hidden Edge of Exmoor 2011.

This impressive 60-metre high sandstone face was described as one of Exmoor’s best-kept secrets by South West Climbs, a selected climbs guidebook which unveiled a hit list of its best routes in 2014. Nice try but the crowds didn’t arrive, no doubt kept at bay by tales of its precipitous access and ghosts that would eviscerate your soul. Besides, the A39 was the Silk Road to Baggy, not desolation.  

In the mid-90s Sir Robert’s Chair proved the perfect milieu for the enigma of Simon Mooney and local farmer Norman Barnes to explore. Brooding and wooded, the high mysterious coast west of Porlock concealed secrets only a sixth sense and strong legs could find. With Terry Cheek naturally on the scene too, the duo prized themselves with sweet and nimble E1/2s that might have found fame and fortune anywhere less antisocial.  

The approach isn’t easy, but who would wish for that? Stumbling around and getting lost can mean you discover more about a place, if only by default. A valued solitary parking place next to Dogsworthy Cottage on the A39 has long been infilled and visitors must now park on Countisbury Common, reaching the coast path via Kipscombe Cottage and Farm. Along this path lie Desolate and Desolation Point, named to sink spirits only so they may be lifted again by the extraordinary rock landscapes beyond.

Foreland Point

‘A wonderland of foreshore pinnacles, compact slabs, crazy walls of overlaps – and solitude.’  

‘Jim stretched out and fell asleep in the sun while I checked out a route on the Crazy Wall of Overlaps. Seemingly within minutes a helicopter was slapping blades overhead searching for signs of life. Jim stirred, I gave the thumbs up to the helicopter pilot, and the route became The Sleeping Dead.’  Diary entries, April 1997. 

Foreland Point is one of the most important climbing sites on the Exmoor coast, on a par with Hurlstone Point but hidden and considerably less accessible.  

A lavish spread of pinnacles and slabs sit on the foreshore in front of a huge mountainous slope, like giant shark fins erupting from the beach. Elsewhere smooth-as-Stealth slabs are complemented by sun-clad walls perforated with pockets and jugs.  On the back-cliff the Crazy Wall of Overlaps supplies a trio of E5/6s which eat cams and calories. Tidal cut-off points either end of the foreshore enhance the commitment and imbue the search for alternative approaches that deliver longer climbing intervals.  If you get trapped, The Kamikaze Sheep Escape Route (IV+) supplies a carcass-ridden way out.

Viewed from a boat, the magnitude of the site becomes clear: massively bedded hard sandstones dip about 60 degrees to the north creating slabs and overlaps, with pointed reefs like prongs combing the sea. Above is heather-clad Foreland, a path slicing down from it through scree to the Foreland lighthouse, now holiday accommodation owned by The National Trust. Long gone are the days when you could park up at the lighthouse and leave a pleadingly polite note for the keeper. A new solution was needed and in 2014 I found myself towing 150m of rope back and forth along the coast path in an Ikea bag in search of a new descent. Not quite Shackleton, but worth a few raised eyebrows if not offers of help. After prospecting, the Landslip Descent route was opened up: a 180m abseil/scramble landing you at the Landslip Stack in the middle of a deserted beach. It unlocked a two-year rejuvenation for site and soul.  

Valley of Rocks

‘The huge zawn we nicknamed Mother Meldrum’s Gut was attempted but with retreat from half-height after failed-A4 i.e. shale hooking above the belay off 3 knifeblades each inserted only ½ inch.’ Ian Parnell recalls his first effort on Glad to be Trad, a ground-up epic in West Inlet.

Nestling in a picture-postcard valley just west of Lynton is a vignette of pinnacles, blocks and monoliths suspended above a precipice falling 150m to the sea. Fashioned by ice and wind, Lynton Slates leave ragged twisting shapes along mountain-like ridges paralleled by paths that were once the pastime of English poets.  Yet for much of the year any romanticised notion of bleakness is pounded away by legions of visitors.  Way beyond their reach, at sea level, breakers exploit the rectangular geology by plucking great cuboid chunks from the cliffs. A honeycomb of caves, gullies, and inlets, is created – adding to the challenge of exploration and the apogee of traverses.  

By way of handling, the rock is a nuanced taste. Away from the sea the outcrops are solid, even sunny – great for chilled leading, family top-roping,  or soloing.; but seawards it exhibits potential for notoriety with black roofs, crusty shale and sandstones, and difficult gear – all conspiring to raise suspicions and even fear above the restless Bristol Channel swell.    

Of the sea-cliffs Yellow Stone is the pearl, a delicate-yellow soul when dressed in lichen for the afternoon sun. All here is not quite desperate; a choice of ace protectable E3s is complemented by Archer’s Lost Route, a 40m Severe corner, and others of a similar grade on nearby Hollerday Buttress. Just to the east a secret sea-cave hides its E4 – E5 heavyweights of southwest classic mould: Blackheart the brusquest of the beasts.

Diverse cliffs attract a range of tactics, rare pioneers with pegs and ground-up ethics arriving for the largest and most daunting cliffs of shale and grass. On seaside Eigerwands towering above Wringcliff Bay, Alpine-style climbing takes over –  light-treading stacks of blocks, step-kicking in scree, and praying any fall does not slice the rope on razor shards of giant interlocking slates. It’s the stuff of Clement Archer and Cyril Manning.  With so much more to go. 

Lee Abbey Estate

‘Where Exmoor meets the sea, you can look out at Wales from the Crosses on the top of the hill – a great place to reflect and encounter Jesus. Or walk deep into the forest on six miles of footpaths, spotting the plants and animals that make the estate their home – including Lee Abbey’s own sheep and cattle. ‘ 

‘In every season, the creation around us speaks of its Creator. Even the stars at night are clearer in this remote and tranquil place.’ 

And – also according to its website – the 288-acre Lee Abbey Estate in Exmoor National Park includes woodlands, streams, fields, and even a private beach. But it also nurtures an exciting and dramatic coastline with several important cliffs and bouldering sites. A Christian Retreat and Conference centre, the Abbey finds itself well positioned to illustrate God through its sublime surroundings.   

Talking of retreats, by the winter of 1996/1997 I reckoned I deserved a break from climbing and whatever impulse, fear, or longing drives you to climb. My arms were weary and my mind dizzy from clock-watching scarce time outside work. So I embarked on a weekly Exmoor walk: 20-mile circuits along rivers and over hills, matching my whereabouts to low tide so I could incorporate drop-downs to the foreshores to explore the cliffs and to coasteer.  That was how I got to know the coast quite well – and some of its remaining secrets. One such descent was to Wringcliff Bay where, concealed peacefully just to the west, a stunning cliff rose 70 metres in undulating pink grooves and jagged forked lightning cracks into the Abbey grounds .  What a place to raise spirits!  

A few months later a ‘man from the BMC’, Dave Turnbull, cashed in on a previous recce and – no stranger to adventure – he took on the knife-edged off-width, its name The Chimney Sweep evoking dusty-faced tussles with tight squeezes. But for me the main event was the pink groove system which, in 2012, became a memorial to Terry (E5) who lost his battle with cancer six months earlier. This and other 2012 routes were climbed only after a locally negotiated access agreement with Lee Abbey since all the cliff’s routes exit into its grounds, and there are overriding conservation limitations too. 

Between the bouldering sites of Lee Bay and Crock Pits lies Crock Point, another fine cliff, though friendlier and more accessible than its spiritual brother. Here storm battered compact sandstones preclude much in the way of gear, and the leads – Culm-like – are serious ventures. There are even a couple of deep water solos, but only for days of calm. Of Crock Pits I know nothing but Grant Edwards tells me: ‘It has some local classics; the landings can vary from beautiful soft sand to an uneven rocky nightmare.’ 

Finally, note that these cliffs and/or associated access routes are sited on Lee Abbey land. So, it would be politic to read the Lee Cliff access agreement and extrapolate sensibly. 

Woody Bay to Heddon’s Mouth

‘It would be a proud accomplishment to have traversed the whole of the shoreline from Porlock  westwards…..it will not be perfected without special studies of the difficulties and opportunities, as serious as those necessary when an untrodden Alpine peak is to be attacked.’ Newell Arber, The Coast Scenery of North Devon; 1911. 

The tantalizing notion of palaeobotanist Arber that the whole of the Exmoor coast could be traversed resonates from generation to generation. During the late-1950s, it became the fixation of retired meteorologist Clement Archer, forefather of Exmoor climbing. Together with his friend Cecil Agar, he began forays west of Woody Bay, descending precipitous slopes with ice axes and bottles of beer for refreshment, traversing this way and that, climbing sections and wading others – his aim being to link the sum of the component parts into a grandiose expedition. All the while – though he occasionally had no choice but to take to the sea – the laws of coasteering evolved around him: ‘to keep feet on rock, and nose above water’. As he explored he meticulously recorded a ‘blog’ detailing his teams’ efforts – in effect a guidebook, released to a chosen few,  that inspired and steered his successors to carry on likewise. 

North facing and obscure, the Martinhoe sea-cliffs represent the moody soul of Exmoor coast climbing. Huge cliffs plunge to a restless sea from convex slopes clad with head-high heather. Out of sight to walkers on the South West Coast Path is a secret catacomb world of bewildering geometry exemplified by the perforate A Cave – a sturdy Aztec pyramid fashioned in hardest Lynton slates.  Archer considered it ‘the most extraordinary discovery in our explorations.’  

It took the genius of eccentricity to solve a way past the series of bluffs, the team’s speleological solutions exploiting dark tidal passages through these sheer, faulted headlands. But as tides inevitably threaten, which way to go once committed in the no mans’ land of the Inner Sanctuary? And what of the Girt Fish of Wringapeak – a sea monster with jaws the size of garage doors? In larger-than-life Wagnerian landscapes, specious folklore became a tangible menace to frayed nerves. 

Subsequent go-getters who aimed ne’er to set foot in water, namely Cyril Manning, Kester Webb, and Terry Cheek, substantially improved the embryonic 1960s line, thus bequeathing a coherent 2km traverse of VS standard that sucks in climbers eager for 3D adventure in flat data-talk times. Vast potential triggers yearnings en route. As yet it has only been pecked by ‘up-routes’, the most dramatic of which distorts the symmetry of the giant A, if only for a while, thus immortalizing Archer (E6) and his extraordinary energy. Crossings of the tourist version of the Exmoor traverse are still regular if infrequent. The coast generates its devotees, the absence of guidebooks perhaps even adding to the compulsion to discover these places for oneself. While not the most problematic part of the full Exmoor traverse, the Woody Bay to Heddon’s Mouth section is its most consistent and exhilarating – weaving under and over stunning geomorphology and outfoxing its most conspiratorial obstacles.  

Come at the wrong time and you won’t be alone. Undisturbed and out of the way nestle great colonies of seabirds, and climbers have thus dutifully limited their climbing to outside the March to July nesting season. Like RSPB warden Cyril Manning ‘who could have become a world-class climber’ (Webb), all the Exmoor explorers appreciated the wildlife and geological value of the Exmoor coast, which enriched their climbing lives – and vice versa.   

‘North Cleave Gut is a unique sight, even on this magnificent coast; one gets the feeling of walking up the nave of some vast natural cathedral.’ Clement Archer

And so to Exmoor coast idiosyncrasy North Cleave Gut, a deep and shady zawn with brilliant on-sightable multi-pitch routes locked well away from the sight of rational human beings. Just walking in and out of the gut is an experience. The climbs to date (well, 2003) are located on its western, northeast-facing wall which reaches 60m in height. Many were indeed on-sighted, defying expectations of the loose and scatological – it’s not every day you climb in a gut.

North Cleave Gut was the scene of the most extreme epic for Terry and me. Threatened by a rising spring tide Terry repeatedly fell into the sea while trying to follow Fish or Man, a new route strained from the bowels of the zawn. Floundering and exhausted, his chilling words ‘I’ve had it’ appeared a flat resignation to consign his fate to the sea. A story to be told, we escaped the ravenous gut only in the small hours; and Terry phoned home.

Nearby Bosley Gut provides the standard way down and a judicious eye on the tide the standard way out. Or you can make a well-targeted abseil with a long-enough rope and nous.

Little Hangman

‘Topping out on Little Hangman Arête you will be greeted by the ironic smile of a garden gnome’. But ‘Gordon the gnome felt dejected in this lonely spot and hitched a lift to more convivial climes.’ High mag 210/212.

A provocative name for the Exmoor coast’s most distinctive summit, conjuring up the mood of its sea-cliffs: intimidating and hard-to-access dark sandstone walls and caves where any serious mistake will exact capital punishment. To avoid the noose, you should creep tentatively into the soul of the Hangman; the place deserves respect. Maybe first do a coasteering recce from Wild Pear Beach at low spring tide, second work out the descent to The Gritstone Wall for a welcoming route or two, and third branch out into greater adventures – hereabouts you’re spoiled for choice. You could do worse than to engage Little Hangman Arête.

The early climbing history of Little Hangman hung on the pioneers’ efforts to pass Yes Tor on the full Exmoor coast traverse without taking to the sea or stepping stones as Cecil Agar and Clement Archer did. Upward options were generally shunned (if not a means of escape), before the climbing potential of the place was sampled in 1985 by whizz-kid Dave Thomas. Curiously, Terry Cheek was less than at home here. Terry would always start twitching nervously when I suggested climbing at Little Hangman: ‘This sandstone is too soft; I don’t trust it’ he would argue.  His point was proved when I ripped off a big solid-looking boss of rock, no gear between me and him on the belay; close call.

A wise tactic is to keep low and sea-washed on the slabby black Hangman Grits which can be immaculate, despite their begrudging gear. Rise higher through the kaleidoscope of banded colours: oranges, reds, and yellows, and you’ll need to keep more of your wits about you. Whatever your strategy your time on these cliffs will be memorable ones.

Some visits here were alone with Soloist: nerves threadbare at times, but a pure way to meld with the guts of a place, even if within eyeshot of fellow man. Paradoxically any expectation of solotude is washed away by the daily armada of fishing and sight-seeing boats chugging and chuntering 60 metres off shore. They’re not used to seeing climbers here, so thumbs up, middle fingers down: you might need their help one day.