Grumpy Old Men's Climbing Club 2026
We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go
Always a little further; it may be
Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow
Across that angry or that glimmering sea.
James, Elroy Flecker. The Golden Journey to Samarkand.
Grumpy New Year to all
It was riotous mayhem down on the Embankment, here are just a few pics.
February 2026. From Richard Haszko, the mountains of Egypt. What? No pyramids?
What’s For Desert?
‘Where are you from? I asked the couple in front of us in the minibus taking Valerie and I from Hurghada airport to our hotel on the shores of the Red Sea. ‘Shropshire’ said the man in front. ‘Where in Shropshire? Asked Valerie. ‘Telford’ was the reply. ‘So am I. Where in Telford?’ ‘We live in Lee Gomery.’ ‘I live in Madeley’ Valerie told them. ‘We know it well’ came the response. Thus began a conversation which nicely filled the 70 minute bus ride.
That’s how we got to know Mick and Tracy and when over dinner that evening Mick said he was going to be 60 soon and wanted to go up 60 named tops this year to raise money for charity and he’d got two in mind in the desert behind the hotel I was interested. ‘I’ll go with you if you like’ I said. I knew there were organised desert walks from the hotel but I didn’t think they went the way Mick had in mind. ‘There’s CKW and Miss Ilgin’s Hill on Google maps so we can do those.
Two days later we met at 8 and set off up the hotel drive. At the gate we had to sign a disclaimer telling us about the dangers of the desert, no rescue etc. but we weren’t concerned. Following directions on Mick’s phone we walked along the largely deserted road, passed by the occasional lorry carrying large blocks of stone. ‘Looks like they’re building another pyramid’ Mick quipped. Spotting a potential route to our first hill we stared up a dry riverbed only to be waved at by a man higher up next to a building. We waved back and carried on, at which point he was joined by another chap and they came down to us. With various gestures it became clear they didn’t want us going that way ant to go further along the road.
Crossing the southbound carriageway we were soon into another wide old riverbed. At it’d head was a small col which we soon reached. Hill CKW was up to our left and we quickly scrambled up steep very loose ground to the top. ‘Not going to be nice going down that’ I said to Mick and it wasn’t: sharp limestone blocks slipping away as soon as we touched them and horribly loose underfoot. Back at the little col we debated what to do next. Miss Ilgin’s Hill looked to be a long way off and we only had one bottle of water between us (me having foolishly not thought to bring one.) We looked up, we looked down and were just starting back but I didn’t really want to give up and neither did Mick. ‘There’s a faint track up this slope let’s go to the top and see what it looks like’ I said. From the top it there was an obvious path leading over to Miss Ilgin’s Hill and it didn’t too far away so we decided to go for it. I got summit fever and raced along, waiting for Mick just below the top so we could go up together. It was only 10 minutes from when we spied the hill in the distance. ‘Must be the opposite of foreshortening in the desert’ I opined, forelengthening.’
The top was marked by a sign that told us the hill was named after Miss Ilgin who was the wife of the man who first went up it in 2007 and started building the hotel. The obligatory photos were taken and it was time to head back. A little track led down quickly to a rocky area with some scrambling down the ancient limestone but it didn’t take us long to get down and back to the hotel in time for breakfast.