It’s a quiet May afternoon. The quarry has absorbed the warmth from the midday sun, wrapping it within purple walls. As I unbuckle my harness, tying it to the rope to be hauled back up, it occurs to me that perhaps I am pushing things too quickly.

I’ve only really been climbing for a couple of years. However, I’ve come on quickly. I’ve done mad dashes to the Peak District crammed in a battered minibus, and midnight climbs in the rain. And now it’s Bath Time - a dangerous climb in Snowdonia’s slate quarries. I stood on a small slate ledge in a disused quarry, my stomach in my throat as I contemplated the next few moments. Moments during which, if all goes smoothly, I will have climbed my hardest route to date, solo, without ropes, and without safety equipment.

Slate is an unforgiving surface on which to climb. The hand and footholds, despite being positive, are sharp and friable. The way is obvious. The wall is mostly blank, a faint trail of edges, under-clings – upside down holds – and vertical holds, known as side pulls. I am thirty-five feet from the surface of the water below and thirty-five from the mossy mountaintop.
I know the guidebook description by heart and am well aware that this is the crux of the route, technically the hardest move, and high enough to hurt myself if I mess things up. I grasp a creaking flake with chalky hands, walk my feet up the wall on matchstick edges, committed beyond the point of no return, release one hand, creep it up and feel the next hold. The moment of insecurity has passed. I breathe, suddenly aware that I haven’t drawn air since leaving the sanctuary of the ledge.

People often ask why climbers shun the protection of ropes and harnesses. There are complex and often illogical reasons, usually centred around a ‘buzz’. Ben Heason, my brother and a climber world-renowned for his solo ascents says: “I do get a bit of a buzz out of doing a scary route but that's not a buzz you want too often. You don't want to become too dependant upon it”.

Writer and climber Al Alvarez goes further, saying: “The pleasure of risk is in the control needed to ride it with assurance, so that what appears dangerous to the outsider is, to the participant, simply a matter of intelligence, skill, intuition, coordination – in a word, experience.”

Perhaps in taking on such a climb while relatively inexperienced I’d broken Al’s rules, but I’d certainly experienced the buzz, also alluded to by Alvarez: “To put yourself into a situation where a mistake cannot necessarily be recouped, where the life you lose may be your own, clears the head wonderfully. It puts domestic problems back into proportion and adds an element of seriousness to your drab, routine life. Perhaps this is one reason why climbing has become increasingly hard as society has become increasingly, disproportionately, coddling.”

I carry on climbing. Despite the moss and an accumulation of twigs on the holds, and the ever-increasing distance between the water and me, I am soon at the top.

Later a more cautious club member asks what would have happened if I’d fallen? A controlled jump should be OK. It’s only 35 feet into water. People have jumped from much higher. People have even jumped from the top, seventy feet, but most woke up in hospital with collapsed lungs and bruised heels.

The real danger is an uncontrolled fall, a foot slip causing loss of balance while making a precarious move, a crumbling hold or some other act of God. These are what I’d been mulling over for the previous two weeks, since I’d become obsessed with a magazine picture of a figure solo climbing on a lonely and blank expanse of rock.

I’d researched the route, spent hours weighing up the risks and decided I was technically capable. It wasn’t a spur of the moment decision. An early climbing mentor once told me a well-known warning: there are bold climbers and there are old climbers, but there aren’t many old, bold climbers.

Why put yourself through such an experience? There’s no denying the adrenaline hit immediately afterwards, but it’s more than that. There’s something very personal about climbing. There are the memories, etched into the brain forever to re-play at will.

Most people begin climbing indoors on artificial walls, getting to know other more experienced climbers who show them how it’s done outside. Many sign up to classes, taught by qualified instructors. Others join a club, which has obvious social benefits, but may lack the formal nature of a class. Another alternative is residential, outdoor climbing. Courses are run by qualified staff, and can be a lot of fun.

Regardless of how you start off, you’ll need to part with a little money for some essential equipment such as a pair of shoes and a harness. As you become more experienced a rope, belay device – a safety device, which holds the rope you are using, a chalk bag, and a helmet will become necessary, and once you start venturing out without more experienced climbers you’ll need protective equipment, of which there is a bewildering array.

There are a number of books and websites dedicated to teaching you how to climb. While these are not the only ways of learning, they provide a fantastic, and in the case of the web, free, resource to compliment your learning.

For more information visit the British Mountaineering Council www.thebmc.co.uk which lists walls and clubs around the country. www.planetFear has a useful series of ‘how to’ articles aimed at beginners, inspiring images and videos, and equipment for sale.