Andrew taught me to climb some seven or eight years ago.  Since I moved to the USA, opportunities to get together have been few and far between.  So when university examining took me back to England, and when Andrew happened to be just back from the Alps, and when the weather was forecast to be record-breakingly fine. . . it was time to head for the Ogwen Valley.

In fact the clouds began to gather as we geared up at the base of Grooved Arete, the all-star classic on the East Face of Tryfan.  I even felt a few drops of rain.  I knew that there was some smooth rock high on the route, which I'd climbed with another partner early in my career; but fotrunately the clouds just threatened, and never let loose.

Grooved Arete comes in tow bites.  Two short pitches and one long one from the Heather Terrace lift you to a scrambling section at mid-height.  Andrew gets to lead pitch 3, which goes up a groove in the center of a fin of rock rising from the grassy slope.  It looks uninspired from below, but it is a delicate climb; especially in the big boots which Andrew felt were appropriate to a returning Alpinist.

The meat of the route is in the next section.  I lead off up the steepening arete, then hand over to Andrew for the leftwards traverse into the Haven.  On my last visit I had ingeniously run these two pitches together, stretching our rope to its limit, so as to leave the next (crux) pitch, the notorious Knight's Slab which leads back from the Haven onto the arete proper, to my partner.  Today, I want that slab!  The description of the slab as a chessboard intimidated me in the past - given my limited chess abilities, I feared I would be unable to work out where to go next.  In fact, the route is fairly obvious; up and right, up and right, and round the corner to an airy stance.

"Andrew, you're on belay" "What?" "Alright - climb when you're ready." After five years in the USA I can now be confused about climbing calls on either side of the Atlantic.  Andrew discovers further evidence of my corruption when he follows the pitch and finds that I used a small Friend on the slab.  My crime does not approach that of the dastardly Germans who in the thirties drove Tryfan's first piton into Munich Climb, but nonetheless the true Briton should use no gear but nuts!  This belay is the best situation on the climb, but there are two more fine pitches before we coil the ropes and head back down.

Next day sees us on the Idwal Slabs, somewhere I have never climbed (partly because the descent sounded so awkward).  Hurrying up the path, we overtake the Plas y Brenin parties and - thanks to the generosity of a guide and two beginners - get to be the first of the day on Hope.   Pitch one is mine but the glare of publicity unnerves me and I manage to confuse some ropework coming onto the main slab.  I play the price in rope drag all the way to the top of the 140-foot pitch.  At least the guide can use me as a bad example.

Swinging leads, we climb Hope in a respectable couple of hours.  It keeps up its interest right to the top.  I wouldn't say the same about Charity, our other route for the day.  The start is extremely polished and causes me some nervous moments; Andrew runs together the second and third pitches which are fine, especially the quartz moves; but the fourth pitch is nothing special and the fifth is hardly more than a scramble.  Then to the descent for the second time that day - I am glad to have Andrew's guidance here, I could easily have lost myself.  Tomorrow Andrew will be back at work, and I will be on a plane to Pennsylvania.  It is good to get back to one's roots.