An Alien On The White Coast - Costa Blanca Bouldering

Think of Costa Blanca and to most it will conjure images of crag after impressive limestone crag, safe bolted routes and a large quantity of unclimbed cliffs. However, taking into consideration that the Spanish have only developed the crags nearest to the road, it's always been presumed that they are hardly likely to walk miles just for some 'trivial' bouldering, as such, subsequently the region has never really been associated with bloc sport.

However this is now changing with more and more people out for a quick fix on a Family Holiday, or to entertain the most diehard of climbers on a rest day.

My first trip to the Costa Blanca saw me at the Orange House activity centre, fishing for any bouldering possibilities the area had to offer, which no one could quite believe given the classic crags of Sella and Toix a stones throw away and the huge Mountain of the Puig Campagnia towering over me.

Eventually, I was shown El beach Paradiso, a nudist beach at Villajoysa. The problems had big 'blobby' holds and some impressive over hanging caves which looked like they had potential. However after breaking off a hold the size of a shoebox, I ended up cracking my head on the only rock on the beach and ended up with 8 metal staples, however, my resolve, if not my head, remained intact to find some quality bouldering problems!

Fast forward five months later, another trip to the Orange House and this time seasoned ex pat Al Evans, sympathising with my love of bouldering and sniffing out anything new, told me of some fine bouldering that he had discovered in the area.

First was the beach at Denia (near Les Rotes) Platja Les Arenetes, which on first impressions does not look like much. However as soon as you are on the sands with the small, overhanging, perfectly formed crag, it becomes apparent that the venue could have been designed by Bendcrete. A perfect set of pockets and pinches on a sweep of browny rock...which was duly, allowed grit status. There's a lot more potential here too. The crag seems to peter out with bad landings but further on, lies a large secret cave to discover and enjoy. All in all it's a lovely place to boulder - with the waves lapping against the shore - it's perhaps the perfect place for a family to go or for a rest day.

To whet my appetite further, I had been promised bigger and better things to come and so we made our way to Montessa. The crag stands proudly next to the ruins of the castle above its namesake town, and although the bouldering there has in the past been largely ignored in the guides, we were fortunate to find there is a guide available in the town from Camil's Rock bar. The guide “La Mola de Montessa” contains both climbing and the 40 strong bouldering problems and a percentage of sales goes towards the bolt fund out there.

After a warm up route, I went in search of a boulder or two and was not disappointed when I rounded a corner from the buttress of El Tormo Gros, to see a pristine hulk of prime limestone begging to be climbed! There followed a session that seemed strange to the sport routers. Clearly some had never seen a bouldering mat before and questioned my motivation – and for a few, brief moments, before topping out on a few great problems, perhaps I did too...

Yet there was still more to be found. As I left, I got a tip-off about some boulders in the woods below Olta. That settled it and five months later and I was there again going through customs to Alicante, sans rack but with bouldering mat firmly attached and getting questioned why I had a fold out bed with me on the way to Spain.

Olta has a great Font feel about it, with the boulders spread out in amongst the forest and (oddly) has a slight touch of Wimberry too, as the further up the hillside you head, the more the perfect formed blocs unveil themselves as you slog up to the crag.

The opening of the Blocs has been mostly of the exploratory type, and there's still lots to go at for the bouldering faithful, some highball nastiness, overhanging crimping and heady slab fests on perfect Blanca fluted - pocketed - sharp limestone.

There are other areas that have been documented on the White Coast including a secret roof that has been developed by the Edward's and is said to be nails. There are various other boulders developed by locals, Al Evans and others, which until the projects are completed, remain secret between those in the know. The obvious car park boulder at Sella however, is one you will all see out there and now contains a few fun lines for the boulderer.

If you fancy something different to the usual clip ups on the white coast, I guarantee that the venues mentioned here will not disappoint. Best interspersed with the routes, the circuits are fun and I haven't even mentioned the sublime deep water bouldering at Cala Moirag down the coast from Toix at Cumbre de la Sol, above the beautiful aqua marine Mediterranean that simply takes your breath away....

Filey Fables

I remember at a very young age, looking through our family photo albums and coming across some photo’s sans myself, of my parents and sisters on a beach somewhere.

I asked my mother “why aren’t I in the pictures?”

My mother replied that more than likely I was in her tummy as I had not yet been born and the pictures were of the family on Filey Beach before I came into this world. As you know, kids are inquisitive creatures and I went on to ask all sorts of questions about the little seaside town, and when I found out how utterly boring the place sounded, I did the grumpy child thing and stated to state to anyone listening in the vicinity that by no means would I want to go there for my summer holidays as it sounded rubbish…

Years after years of holidaying at the small resort by generations of my family, I was determined that this particular generation was better than my Grandparents and their children. Nothing short of the Isle of White would do for this repugnant Jacques child.

My Grandparents used to take the Family to Filey as it was famed for its grand sweeping beach and it was of course, a short (ish) journey from Derbyshire. They used to stay in an old fisherman’s cottage on Queens street, renting rooms in the house for my parents and after a day on the beach my grandmother would retire to the house to cook tea for the landlord, such was the days of a woman’s place in the kitchen.

Since my childish tantrum and minor outburst, I never thought of the east coast resort again, until years later, I was asked by some friends if I would like to go to Filey for the weekend.

I think my response was pretty much the same as the spoilt brats, however it wasn’t received with such grace nor indifference as previously. In fact my friends took this blasé retort as an insult and chided me for my arrogance and indeed, ignorance.

I apologised almost immediately, I was no longer 5 and as a mature adult I should show my friends more respect and gratitude and so I accepted their kind offer of a trip to the seaside for a weekend of fish and chips and ice creams.

Since that trip, I have been back to Filey around 3 times a year, usually with the same group of great mates, stopping at my friend’s bungalow, which is rented out as a holiday cottage most weekends of the year.

This year most of us had no plans to journey abroad for summer holidays and so a short stay at the Filey bungy was it for us!

The weekend started off well with a fun ride up the A64 in a converted modern VW camper van, playing a few tunes in the spacious living area while we drove to the coast. A first bike ride to get the muscles warmed up for the weekend activities and we retired tired but happy with a few drinks and the obligatory cheese board.

The gulls woke me next morning as usual and it was a close decision whether training starts at 6am in the sunshine or I give myself chance to gain another hour sleep before heading out. Fortunately the latter won over, and slightly more refreshed, I set off on the push iron to the coast and the morning’s ride began in bright sunshine with the gulls squawking above.

3 more runs that day, some dry some not, and the legs had begun to burn, however rest came with a well deserved barbeque and crash that night, whilst trying to keep the hams supple and the quads stretched.

Next morning WAS early on the bike and as the rain fell, I put the foul weather to the back of my mind for as long as I could before returning to the bungy for a well deserved breakfast to fuel up for the day.

A familiar start to the days events via a short walk through the fields to the coast onto the Brigg, before the beach for a 2 hour game of cricket. The exercise had begun to tell as I was always half an inch off the catch as the kids ran us ragged, before we were allowed to retire to the pub, which in some ways was our local, well, our Filey local anyway.

Having played a gig there last time we were in town, I was kind of hoping that I may be welcome back on the bill, however it was cheesy cabaret summertime season and the ‘family entertainers’ were on the circuit. Ah well, next time.

Before we hit the Station Hotel, we marvelled at a display from the Coastguard and watched in awe as a sea king heli soared over two lifeboats performing a stunning display of sea rescue in the bay. My favourite part being when the heli took a bow at the end of the performance before sweeping away over the bay and the onlookers crowded onto the beach.

Another evening run on the racer and my legs were now going away from me and I only just managed a walk to fetch the fish and chips.

I decided that I had maybe shot my bolt, this before the day I’d already ear marked as a long day out on the bike. My plan was to catch the Scarborough train and alight for the coastal trail to Whitby via Robin Hoods Bay. No chance. Especially as young Nathan didn’t fancy another beach day and wanted an adventure out on the bikes.

That gave me the excuse to shelve the Whitby idea, and so we set off in the drizzle to the local wildlife sanctuary, where we sheltered in the hides to view the wetlands and the vast array of bird life. Bill Oddie would have wet himself. We were just happy to be dry as we necked our retro midget gems and bon bon’s.

Moving on, next stop on the bikes was the very large local pet centre we have driven past many times yet never before entering. Nathan liked the fish and I liked the rabbits, it was free and we were dry. I decided that we’d had enough excitement for one day and we rode through the rain down to ‘Muston Bottoms’ for lunch at ‘The Ship’. But it was shut, so we cycled up the hill to Hunmanby, which, as nice a village as it is, the pond life and the pubs did not inspire a lunch stop. However I knew of a place by the railway a little further on which did a carvery and was a tad better class of a place and very nice were they too at the Railway Tavern, welcoming two wet and muddy cyclists for their lunch.

I knew the next stretch of our journey would be the fun part as what goes up, has to rush down and as a reward of our hard work, we sped past the windmills down the hills to the coast weaving and laughing through the fresh coastal air as the clouds dissipated leaving bright sunshine.

A fast run down the coastal road saw us entering Filey via the south route past the donkeys to the boating lake for a rest at another favourite, the White Lodge Hotel gardens, with a fantastic view of Filey bay.

A race back to the Bungy (where I was soundly beaten – my legs HAD gone) and we put the bikes away for the day and I hoped for the rest of the holiday! We returned later on to the White Lodge Hotel for a lovely meal in the conservatory, again admiring the views before retiring for cheese and port at the bungy. It is after all along with fish and chips, a Filey tradition round our parts.

The next day I couldn’t even look at the bike, never mind get my poor arse on it, so I decided that to warm down, a walk in the summer sunshine over the fields to the coast would be the better.

Much to my surprise Nathan still had some beans left and wanted to come with me yet again. Good lad. So we stocked on grub and water and pressed on over to the Wolds Way, where I gave the map to Nathan and told him that he would be chief navigator for the day.

Journeying through the green fields of cattle, these soon turned to wheat (the fields, not the cows!) and we arrived at the charming village of Gristhorpe (better that it sounds) where we looked for a spot for lunch. Being such a tiny place there was only the pub (again – oh dear) where we could stop and rest, yet it was on of the nicest and charming that I have visited in the area (it’s not really hard as the competition is pretty much nil). The Bull was an old smugglers tavern from the 1600’s and we barely fitted in as the ceiling was slung so low over the bowed oak beams. In amongst the 1950’s memorabilia were nautical references hung hither and thither, but as the sun was shining we sat in the beer garden with an albino rabbit and a few chickens to eat our pasties with a side dish of pork scratchings.

Onwards walking to Lebberston, another small village, we passed a travelling circus before arriving at one of those family places that sells plastic food and has a wicky woo warehouse. We needed a toilet by then and nature had not provided us with a spot, we used the facilities before a mixed slush puppy and a game of air hockey and table football.

Lord knows how folk can spend more than the 10 minutes we did in there, far be it for me to judge people and their choice of leisure time, but I’m just glad that there ARE places like that to put these people in.

As the day got hotter, we finally made it over to the coast near the surfing school at Cayton Bay and onto the Cleveland Way where we sat for a while contemplating the view of nearby Scarborough with its prominent castle. As we resumed our walk (after retrieving a local ladies spectacles from the path) Nathan decided at this point to be knackered. I sympathised with him, he had put in a fine effort, yet we were still a fair few miles from the bungy. It was going to be a hard walk in for both of us.

The coast to our left looked stunning as we walked down the way, albeit at a snails pace and I tried to ignore the amount of litter that we came about as we walked past the caravan parks. It was horrific and it made me so disgusted that people can actually care so little for the environment that they inhabit. Yet I was on holiday and I wasn’t there to be an eco warrior and had to turn a blind eye, bloody frustrating.

Judgement clouded through tiredness and we took a wrong turn (even though I knew it was – I wasn’t the navigator remember!) and we ended up doing the old barb wire fence hurdle to see us safely back to the bungy, shattered and in need of a good rest.

We’d done more miles than I anticipated yet we had taken in a good deal of interesting sites over the last few days, well for Filey at least!

As I sat on the train home that evening and we sped past the coastal towns and villages in the glowing yellow light over the North Sea, I thought of myself as that naive grotty five year old that had so readily dismissed a holiday to the resort of Filey.

Call it fate, karma or irony, but my summer holiday for 2011 in Filey had taken the story full circle, as often happens when one learns to appreciate what opportunities they have. I feel my Filey bashing has been restored over time and I have made my peace with the town…

Thanks Filey, see you soon…