Back in the spring of 1998, university life was still new enough to feel exciting, and climbing was fast becoming more than just a hobby. That year, the Warwick University Mountaineering Club (WUMC) trip to Swansea marked a turning point for me: my first experience of sea cliff climbing, my first abseil into a route and one of those formative weekends that stitched together friendship, movement and a pint or two.
Unlike our usual club excursions, this trip wasn’t officially sanctioned. A lack of a qualified university minibus driver meant no Sports Federation funding and no minibus. Instead, we cobbled together an unofficial outing, driving down in a swish VW transporter that Steve and Will had sourced. It was far comfier than a minibus, and we felt like renegades before we’d even left campus.
We assembled outside Rootes reception at the university: me, Helen, Skinny John, Tim and Mat waiting for our lift. Three hours later, we rolled into John’s family home just outside Swansea. His parents welcomed us with soup and warm hospitality and before long we were stretched out on sleeping bags in corners.
Saturday dawned clear and warm, a rare treat on a British sea cliff. We made the short drive to the Gower coast and walked in through fields, streams and a patch of beach. Reaching the crag, we scrambled over to the base of an arch, packs jingling with gear and nerves buzzing.
I seconded Steve on a VS 4c that snaked up the side of the arch before cutting into its hollow centre. The route had a beautifully airy move just above the lip of the arch, feet smearing on rock with the sea somewhere far below. I remember glancing down and registering how exposed it all felt with the water, the wind, the echo of gulls. At the top, I was initiated into another rite of passage: my first proper abseil off a sea cliff, dropping down the open middle of the arch on a swaying rope.
The rest of the day unfolded in a satisfying blur of climbs. I seconded a few more routes and joined in on a top-rope set up by the others. The rock was warm to the touch, and the group energy was easygoing and full of laughter.
That evening, John headed off to play violin at a barn dance while the rest of us, joined by Tim’s friend from Swansea, set off in search of pub. When the pub closed, we carried on the session back at John’s parents’ house, sharing stories and finishing off the beer stash before collapsing into bed.
Sunday delivered another fair weather gift, with only the odd light shower to keep us humble. We returned to the crags, this time focusing on abseil-accessed VS and Severe lines, learning to trust our anchors and our ropework as we lowered into climbs and topped out under our own steam. There was time for some bouldering on the beach too.
It was the kind of day that’s never rushed: just enough climbing to stretch you, just enough breaks to soak up the view and enjoy a snack or two.
We rounded off the trip with a visit to John’s sister, who worked in a Swansea pub. Then it was back to John’s house to collect gear (and his violin) and fit in one last cup of tea before the long drive back to Warwick.
Looking back, that weekend was the perfect microcosm of those early WUMC trips: a scrappy mix of new experiences, solid climbing and relaxed evenings that blurred into soft-focus memories. I had no idea at the time just how formative sea cliff climbing would become for me. That first abseil into a route opened a door to future adventures, on Pembrokeshire’s tidal zawn routes, on Lundy’s granite walls and in all the quiet, beautiful corners you only reach by rope and curiosity.
I was were still “learning the ropes”sometimes literally but those early trips laid a foundation. It was the beginning of my transition from hillwalking and scrambling into the vertical world and the start of a lifelong love for the kind of weekends where all you really need is a bit of rock, a few friends and just enough daylight.