So why try again? The short answer is that I’m a perfectionist at heart, and hate leaving things undone. There was a route burning a hole in my mental list that had to be scored off. The long one is this: Who wouldn’t want to be part of the legend of the route? I wanted to share in its narrative. Routes such as ...the Affair are like potent drugs. They allow us to reach higher mental states, to explore parts of our mind and character that we otherwise could not access. It’s funny how a piece of rock can allow us to realize our potential. There’s something very empowering in dangerous head-pointing. The act of doing something with potentially severe consequences, and yet for no good reason, is both ludicrous and profound. Taking life into our own hands; that’s what it’s about.

Curbar is just a 30-minute drive from my home city of Sheffield. Every weekend, thousands make the same journey through the cities veins, deposited in the moors of the Peak District National Park. Not many do it for the media glory, instead measuring success through a personal journey and to tick a worn guidebook. Coming originally from London where 30 minutes might get you to the next neighborhood, it still surprises me that such wild experiences can be had so close to home. To be plunged into a world of fear and anguish for a few fleeting minutes on a route, before returning to the normality of the city.

I feel a peculiar telescoping of time when I stand at the bottom of any hard route. The sequence plays at super fast speed in my head, and then slows at the crux passages. A ghostly splitting of the time line occurs, whereby I imagine both falling off and pulling through the crux simultaneously. Whichever scenario I sense more clearly, up or down, gives an indication of the chances of success.

Setting off on ...the Affair was no different. I visualized the dab of chalk that indicated my left foot placement, and hiking my right foot high on a smear before making the final reach to a good sloper with the right hand. It was important to anticipate the feeling of being "out there", on the arête, the wind blowing me and emptiness below. I put earplugs in, gave a faint smile to my belayer Tom LeFanu, and let my body take over. The climb passed without drama, as head-points should. I scurried over the top, feeling that endorphin surge come over me. Shouting would have felt out of place so I just stood at the top, overlooking the rural Derbyshire landscape.

It didn’t last long. It was 4pm and I had a night shift to go to. But that feeling of standing at the top, the sun in my eyes, stayed with me for days. It was pure fulfilment, coming full circle and becoming whole. Memorable routes, boulders and mountains are milestones in our lives, as significant as any life event. This affair has ended, but the next has already started.