The shortest day of the year. We perch on the saddle of a promontory jutting west out of Anglesey into the Celtic Sea and look down into Wen Zawn - the white inlet. It seethes, the waves lift slow and bulky and burst suddenly, propelled by a force-8 gale. Rain hits our anoraks like grapeshot, pelmets of fog lour and droop on South Stack lighthouse, the airstream throws us off-balance and makes breathing difficult if you face into the wind. Across the rocking water is our goal - what was our goal as we planned at home over roast chicken and red wine: the crag of quartzite that armours Wales at this point, three hundred feet high, seamed with cracks. Ed Drummond found the first way up it 17 years ago and gave his line the most beautiful of rock names, A Dream of White Horses. For seven months we've been exchanging poems between his home in San Francisco and mine in Cumbria. Now we're here to pluck his route from the teeth of winter but it seems madly unfeasible. I couldn't live in that maelstrom. A thread of waterfall near the start of the route is blowing sideways and upwards. Ed looks and looks, saying little. Then: 'If you don't mind, I think we'll leave it. It doesn't look good. In these conditions.' Pause. I say: 'I'm glad you've said that. Because it looks terrible to me. I'm glad you didn't feel you had to decide for it, for my sake.'

LRB 5 September 1985 | PDF Download