10 November 2013

Chill - Caley

Caley Road is shut at the top. Someone took the black ice expressway into the barrier. I detour, as I get in by the gate the breakdown truck is removing the twisted metal, looked like the sort you walk away from losing only your excess.

To the playground to play. It's sunny on the boulder top, the bottom still in the freezer, frost for carpet. Bryn lands channelling Countryfile, in green coat and wellies. We warm up, well move around and wait for the sun to come and warm us through.

The sun plays a cruel trick it tracks the horizon line then disappears. Once more we are chilling in the Whatefedale deep freeze.

Many come, we play tunes on Chicken Heads. Me and Louis dispensing with the break, Louis in good style. Everyone else licks their fingers then gets a leg over. It's sticky as you like you can pull on shadows today.

Then Otley wall, low but oddly scary. Today I have no fear, but my feet will not stick me through the crux, good progress but not unlocked. Craig goes for one, slips off the mat and then he is under the lip. We are all one by one, shutdown and out. 

Forked lightening crack is everdry and greasy. We shuffle around putting off having a go. Louis has a fag, Kate keeps her coat on, Craig talks of aches and knee pain. 

Then he flashes it first pop, three goes later the sitter is in the bag as he barn doors away, than holds the finishing jug, effort.

Louis and I leave skin and blood offerings in the first finger slot, surely these will curry favour for us next time?

Then we are cold, it's got through in a "I will need a bath to fix this" sort of way. Kate looks minutes away from proper unhappiness. We head off and out into the light. It's grit season, long may it continue.
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