🚇 Climbing diary #5: Heart of Darkness

The Central Line offends every fiber of my being.

Of London’s vast array of tube lines, it’s at once: the hottest, most polluted, the busiest, and the second loudest. It’s a sultry experience begrudgingly shared by a sultry crowd. Too often have I found myself trapped between a swell of people and the grimy metal skin of a downturned train door, inhaling a toxic stew of dead cells and dirt. It also happens to be my new daily commute¹.

The Central Line is utterly loathsome. But it’s far from the only place in London.

Case in point.

Some time ago, a troll posting on an internet forum blithely suggested, alongisde a list of real touristy things, that walking the length of the Rotherhithe Tunnel was “an absolute must” for anyone visiting London. For those not in the know, it’s a tunnel for vehicles between Limehouse on the north side, south to Rotherhithe. There’s a pedestrian walkway on one side.

I’ve long since favoured pursuing ‘off the beaten track’ ‘hidden gems’ over their more well trodden counterparts (Atlas Obscura, ilysfm), and as fate would have it, the Rotherhithe tunnel was right on my doorstep. Boom.

Gleefully, I floated the idea to a friend who turned out to be just as gullible as me. Double boom.

We packed our bags and descended naively into the dank, tubular cavern from the North side, waving goodbye to sunny skies and entering into the belly of artifical light below the Thames. The Victorians designed the tunnel to include curves at either end. The logic was that horses wouldn’t bolt on seeing natural sunlight (i.e, an escape route).

It was everything one might think it would be. Unfortunately, we gave the odyssey in question zero thought whatsoever.

It’s perhaps the only time I’ve known the taste of intense pollution. Like the merry family of Central Line pollutants but on high dose steroids. I vividly recall the heaviness of the air, the vulnerability of my throat and lungs, the metallic stench of petrol and diesel strangling my nasal cavaties into light headed submission. A thin, greasy lining of soot formed deadpan on the surface of my face and arms.

We almost immediately realised this was one of those dumb ideas that shouldn’t have made it past the drawing board. But, due to some combination of embarrassment to suggest quitting and stubborn male bravado, we persisted. Adventure – amongst other more sinister things – was in the air.

By the time we decided to turn back, a sign indicated we’d gone past ~800 yards, or: halfway. Onwards we went and through the otherside to freedom. Despite the venture surely bringing any natural death forward by some number of days, it was a hilarious lesson in not believing everything you read online.

You’re probably wondering, how does this relate to climbing? Is all this some overdrawn prelude prior to preaching about the adverse health impact of chalk particulate matter endemic to indoor climbing gyms? Actually, no. At least, not yet.

This storied quest through the tunnel happens to be the same day I went bouldering for the first time in my life.

(Though, apparently not my first time climbing as this picture evidences. Just look at 12 year old me absolutely rocking some classic Converse. To think I just bought new climbing shoes when I could’ve pulled these from the top drawer).

Not so far from the other side of said tunnel is the Arch Climbing Wall in Bermondsey, which in a past life played residence to the art of one Damien Hirst. A great space. A little hot during summer days and a little cool in winter. But nonetheless.

Of the folks who went that day, flatmates and comrades alike, I’m the only one that’s stuck with it enough to crush v7s at will². Or rather, I remember my utter glee bouncing up and down the wall. I remember the awe of seeing strong climbers ascend impossible routes. I remember the sense of community, the positive energy folks wielded.

It was the bees knees, and I wanted in.

Now that’s out the way, here’s the educational part.^{3 4 5 6 7}