The Rock of God, by Stevie Haston.

I been travelling. North Wales was great, perfect temperature for climbing, but books have been my CO2 friendly mode of exploring other places and listening to clever people. Being poor my options are few, but hey at least I have options, try living in Gazza.

 This book is very interesting, probably not the kind of book you want to be reading sitting next to a Scouser with six kids in adjoining seat, and a long tattoo stretching up his kneck with knives portrayed in it.

 One of my local hangs! If I am feeling good to the planet, I'll walk here.

 With  Ben Moon, I am always confronted by morphology, Ben is really made for climbing, being lithe, I am born to move Fridges and washing machines around.

 My Great  Bulkness, rock that is shiny in the sun, the Tube that is no longer where it should be, and tip toing in the steps of my old friend Cliff Phillips, AKA The Captain, perhaps more "Captain, my Captain", rather than a piss take on Royalty.

 The magic angularity of climbing Slate is a Kaleidoscope of callisthenics and Shape Shifting.

 The last pitch on a six pitch route, or day-40 meters of sublimeness.

Hobbit toes, climbing hobbits, it was lovely to be part of a landscape. The holes that were dug by the dwarves of North Wales, these pits of industrial Britain were part of the Empire, the Empire that they are forever trying to resurrect in the mind of the electorate, to convince you to vote for Money, and cruelty over peace and harmony. Obviously, a long time ago I voted with my fingers and toes, and went the way of the Dervich. Climbing was my running away to Sea, it was my running away to work with the circus. Long live Climbing and all who sail in her.