“Away with the Faeries” E9 6c - First Ascent

Last year, while working a long-term climbing project in the Loch Scavaig area on Skye, I needed a break. So, on a rainy day, I headed to the Third Ridge climbing wall in Portree—a brilliant little venue run by John Smith and Kate Sutton, who also run a guiding business for climbing and watersports.

Working on the long-term project at Loch Scavaig.

That’s where I met Doug Sutton, a local climber and one half of the legendary Sutton brothers, known for putting up countless first ascents across Skye, both trad and bouldering. Doug casually mentioned a place called Carn Liath (Gaelic: Grey Cairn), before quickly adding:

“Oh… maybe I shouldn’t have said that?”

But the damage was done. My curiosity was piqued. The very next day, I walked up there.

Of course, I’m not in the habit of stealing other climbers’ projects, but I figured there was no harm in going for a walk to see what was so special about this mysterious Carn Liath. At the very least, it might be worth a future visit.

Bonnie and I walking up via the Old Man of Storr on Day 1 - aka “The Tourist Route”. We did this once because we’d never been to see the old man… now we’ve done that we don’t ever have to do it again, because it’s inundated with tourists and feels like Disneyland!

Carn Liath is a grey, weathered rocky knoll, often wrapped in mist, and full of that moody, elemental vibe that defines the Trotternish Ridge. It sits just south of the Old Man of Storr, part of a surreal, landslip-sculpted landscape steeped in myth and folklore. While Carn Liath itself doesn’t have specific legends, the Storr massif is said to be the resting place of a buried giant, the Old Man being his thumb poking out of the earth.

So, Bonnie (my dog) and I trudged up the hill. An hour of soggy bog-trekking later, we arrived—wild wind, driving rain, the full Skye welcome. As you approach Carn Liath, dark spines start jutting from the hillside. Then you summit a rocky ridge and suddenly the land drops into a vast pit. Enormous black cliffs rise to the left (facing due north), and a colossal boulder field—perhaps the largest I’ve seen in the British Isles—tumbles down the hillside for over a kilometre. Thousands of boulders, some as big as houses, others VW-sized, sprawled across the slope. The rock quality was mixed, but promising.

My interest became twofold: check out the cliffs for a potential trad project, and scope out the boulders.

As we descended into the hollow, Bonnie close at my heels, I got that eerie feeling—like something was watching us. I shrugged it off, but Bonnie suddenly barked, loud and sharp, just 10 metres from the first boulders. Her voice cut through the steady rain like an alarm. Between the barks, only the patter of rain on rock. I kept walking. Bonnie, though wary, followed.

We scrambled through the boulders, her paws tapping and scraping over the slick stone. Eventually we reached a big grassy mound, a welcome respite from the terrain, and from the top we had an incredible view—the full crag and the vast boulder field below.

Turning to face the crag, I finally saw what Doug had meant. The wall was massive—maybe 60 to 80 metres tall—and dripping with black streaks. It looked wild, wet, and full of potential. I knew there had been climbs here before, but in Scotland, that often just means the easier lines are taken.

The main buttress of Carn Liath looking very wet and intimidating on day 1

The rain eased off, so I flew the drone to get a better sense of the wall's features. A drone’s been a game-changer for me when scoping new routes—it saves faffing with static lines on dead ends. That’s when I saw it: a huge overhanging turtle-back feature, covered in scale-like shelves. It looked like the shell of some giant, ancient beast. Straight away I thought of “The Great A’Tuin”—a little nod for the Terry Pratchett fans.

I hadn’t brought any gear that day, so Bonnie and I spent the afternoon wandering the boulders, earmarking a few lines for the future. Hard to judge potential when everything’s wet and slimy, but a few looked promising.

The first and probably worst looking boulder I found on Day 1 - there is probably hundreds of boulders this size or bigger, and thousands of others!!!

A couple of weeks later, the weather turned. We had one of the best fortnights of May I can remember—day after day of sunshine, and not a midge in sight. Bonnie and I were back in Loch Scavaig most days, working the project and opening some new lines on Sgurr na Stri.

One brilliant day, I climbed a new E7 there with my friend Adrian belaying. His partner Bridgette named it “Stri of Life”—a beauty of a name. After that, I decided it was time to return to Carn Liath.

“Stri of Life” E7 - Well protected but with a bold traverse on tricky-ish climbing to an amazing crack and some powerful moves leading to the top. Three stars!!!

I abseiled in from the top of the crag and was surprised how sparse the gear placements were. I dropped 10–15 metres before finding anything suitable for a re-belay—fortunately, right above the turtle-shell feature. Another 10 metres down and I reached the start of the overhang. It looked even more intimidating up close.

The first 10 metres were blank and gearless. I eventually managed to swing into a vertical crack and clean it out enough to place a solid yellow Totem. With the rope tensioned, I got in close and began working the holds. The sequence was hard and unforgiving—make one error and you’re off. But after a couple of days I had it dialled.

Still, the lower boulder problem (around Font 7B+) went only 1 in 10 times for me—not great odds considering a fall would likely mean broken bones. Above that was an 8-metre runout on sustained ground. Scary. But I reckoned a fall there would be into space, not into the ground. That section felt about Fr7c/+—very techy. Overall, maybe Fr8a+?

On my final day on Skye, James Sutton joined me and managed to capture my full top rope ascent on camera. That helped cement the possibility of a lead attempt—but I knew I wasn’t quite ready. I’d need to train more for the crux.

Unfortunately, other commitments meant I didn’t get back to Skye until April 2025.

Just like the year before, we got an amazing weather window. I’d had a rough winter—TFCC wrist injury, sprained ankle. I even had to cancel a Patagonia trip, losing over £1,000 in flights. That stung—almost as much as the injuries. But by April, my wrist was improving, and I’d managed some good board sessions. The power was coming back.

Maybe—just maybe—it would be enough.

On my first session back, after chalking up and brushing the holds, I surprised myself by climbing the boulder on my first go! I thought it might be a fluke, so I tried again… nope, no fluke! I did it a third time too. Riding a wave of form, I then climbed the next section first try, almost perfectly remembering my sequence. Before lunch, I even managed to link the whole route from the bottom a few times.

Since last year, my perception of the difficulty had shifted. I now reckoned the opening boulder was more like F7A+ than F7B+—mainly because I could do it every time now, and it no longer felt especially risky.

Later, sitting with Bonnie and a cup of tea, I felt pretty chuffed that things had come together so fast—but also realised that meant I’d have to lead it soon. I texted my mate Ryan Balharry to see if he’d be up for coming to shoot it. Nothing locks in commitment quite like inviting a photographer. I suggested he come in a couple of days—that would give me one day to check the rest of the climb for gear, followed by a rest day. My friend Trigg also joined and offered to belay… everything was set.

On the big day, I ended up starting a little later than planned. By the time I reached the crux, with my nest of gear all placed, the sun was already shining on the boulder problem and creeping onto the wall above. If I wanted to climb it today, it had to be now—so I committed.

When a climb carries risk, the mind often tries to hold the body back. It’s a strange irony: to stay safe, you need full commitment, yet the brain—driven by ancient self-preservation—tries to resist. In those moments, you have to override that fear, let go of doubt, and trust your body to do what it knows. That’s exactly what I did.

As I entered the boulder crux, I felt the small edges bite into my fingertips. The warmth made them a little slicker than I’d like, but I kept going. I took the tiny left-hand crimp, pulled hard, grabbed the right-hand sloper, hips tight to the wall, locked down, reached for the undercut jug… This was the do-or-die moment. If I fell now, I’d hit a rock ledge—and it wouldn’t be pretty. My fingers stretched to their limit and just managed to curl over the jug. I was through the crux.

Setting up for the big reach to the undercut jug mid crux!

A few moves later, I hit another jug, now several metres above my gear and fully committed. The next 8–10 metres of climbing were tricky and body-position dependent, but I hadn’t fallen there once while working the route on a fixed line, so there was no reason I should now. The sun was blinding, but thankfully it hadn’t hit the holds yet—they were still cool and grippy. After a few minutes resting, I saw no reason to wait longer. I started climbing again—with pure focus and instinct.

Move by move, I climbed with calm intent. I was only dimly aware of how far I was above my last gear. One move near the end of the runout—a bit of a lunge to a small crimp—was never hard, but it was bold. I let out a little “ahhh” as I went for it! Now I was just a few moves from the final jug… 10 metres above my last gear. A couple of foot moves, then a heel, left-hand sloper, right-hand sidepull, reach… jug! I’d done it. I pulled up onto the small ledge in the middle of the wall and let myself breathe, working to slow my heart rate.

The final 10 metres of climbing traversed out right onto the sunlit face. It was fully exposed, but only about F6a, and I knew I wasn’t going to fall there.

I topped out on the cliff about 15 minutes later, completing the 55-metre mega route I’d now named “Away with the Faeries” (E9 6c).

About 9m runout above the gear at this point… a few hard-ish moves remain before the jug rest!

Naming climbs is something I’ve always loved. It’s not about claiming the rock, but about leaving a part of yourself with it—connecting your experience to the next climber who passes that way. I often wonder why climbs are called what they are. Sometimes it’s obvious, sometimes not—and that bit of mystery can be part of the fun.

“Away with the Faeries” is named partly for the magical feel of the place, partly because you’d have to be slightly “away with the faeries” to climb it… and maybe as a nod to myself too. I’ve always had my head in the clouds. I’m a dreamer, and I think that part of me—the belief in possibilities—has helped me succeed in climbing. The phrase is often used as a gentle insult, implying someone is distracted or out of touch. But that’s me, and I don’t think it’s done me too much harm.

On a final note, when I topped out, I wasn’t as elated as I expected. I thought about it in the moment and realised why: the best part was the process—finding it, cleaning it, learning it. The send was just a formality. That’s often how it is with headpointing. It’s a great experience, but I realised I’m craving a bit more uncertainty in my climbing right now.

So I’ve decided to focus on onsight climbing for the rest of the year. I’ve only ever onsighted one E7—Dalriada—and I’d love to do more. I’ve got my eye on a few classic E7s, and even a couple of E8s. Let’s see what I can get done before the year is out.

Is that not magical? Carn Liath… surely the Faeries MUST live here!