Author Archives: Nick Bullock

The Free Bullock Definition.

I was approached a while back and asked if I would write “a couple of sentences or more,” to be included in an article about the changing face of British Alpinism. The first thing that came to mind was how is it … Continue reading

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A Different Game… The Dru Couloir Direct.

  I had driven from Leicestershire to Chamonix to meet Paul Schweizer, it was September 2000. Paul was a reasonably affable American with a penchant to rant – we connected.  Old – older than me anyway – a tad crusty, … Continue reading

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Stupenda.

Stupenda: Italian for marvellous, wonderful, stupendous, wondrous, terrific, stunning. I was acting like a truculent teenager. ‘We should be on The Dru. We should be on The Grande Jorasses. The weather is perfect; we should not be climbing a three … Continue reading

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Shine On.

   I walked through the front door of my home for the winter, a modern two bedroom apartment in the centre of Chamonix. Neil Brodie and Kenton Cool were waiting. “Come on, pack your stuff.” They were about to whisk … Continue reading

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All About the Hashtag.

    Its 8am and I’m sitting on my bed, leaning against the wall, eating breakfast and listening to the Today Programme on Radio 4. The cream coloured duvet is rucked and crumpled; a few crumbs of toast lay scattered. … Continue reading

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Fever Pitch.

    In a week where innocent people are shot down in Paris for expressing their cartoon  feelings and then, several hours later, more killing – four innocent hostages and three fundamentalists are shot, also in Paris, it makes writing about a personal … Continue reading

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Road Kill.

  When I was a teenager I kept ferrets and to feed them, I would pick up road kill or hunt rabbits or shoot starlings with an air rifle. At fourteen years old, Starlings were scrawny scavengers with no beautiful song, … Continue reading

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The Day Before the Solstice.

Skis cut a twin track, a track pointing toward Tour Ronde’s West Wall. Scalloped sastrugi, fill with powder driven on the wind. The winter sun dapples soft shadows across the glacier. Ice edges, sharp and blue and severe. Exfoliating ice crystals … Continue reading

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The Countdown.

  Whispering white grasped by the wind was thrown down the granite V-groove, fortunately the grey overhang capping a dog-leg in the groove, protected me. Spindrift flowed – grains in an egg timer – the snow caught in the granite … Continue reading

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After the Event.

The hues were golden and to the worn fingertips, the orange rock was cool. White chalk dots traced winding trails. Weeping tufas glistened in the early morning sun. The dust beneath the overhanging cliff was crushed bone and the vista, … Continue reading

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