"Pick you up in 1 hour. Be ready" the message demanded. No idle invitation or social call this message, mysterious but stern, was a call to arms.

I'd returned an hour prior from a weekend of gallivanting across England and sleeping cramped up in the front seat of a Nissan Micra. My bones ached, my muscles throbbed and all I wanted was some goddamn sleep that didn't involve having a handbrake jammed precariously close to the conclusion of my digestive components. Exasperated I dialled snappel's number to discover what madness possessed him to drive 4 hours into London.

"Stepping Lightly and I are going to Battersea powerstation, be ready". I thought I wanted sleep but the devious bastard knows me too well, really I wanted in.

Battersea Powerstation is the elder statesmen of the south London skyline. There are newer, shinier buildings and sights dotted along the water to satiate the salivating tourists with their under-utilised slrs and kit lens, but Battersea stands aged and unfazed like the war veteran who's seen it all. London has reinvented itself time and time again but others come and go but Battersea is the pillar of a constantly changing skyline. She's famous for being upon the cover of Pink Floyd's "Animals", four gleaming white smokestacks rising against a vibrant red sky. These are possibly the most famous chimneys in the world.

Our minimalist kit was divided up, consisting of one dynamic rope, one static rope, a bunch of quickdraws, our individual SRT kits and a couple of those death taunting skyhooks aid climbers seem to love. Skyhooks resemble oversized fishing hook used to gain purchase on small ledges and cracks. They scare the shit out of me but my faith in SL, our resident aid climber, alleviated the potential manmud in my strides. Lastly a small 35mm rangefinder loaded up with velvia was tucked into a pocket.



The meandering yet reliable route I know into Battersea remains as in 2006 when I visited with Stoop, Siologen and quantum-x, despite the assertions by the usual London know-it-alls to the contrary. Climbing over a large fence snappel slipped up, tumbled and slammed hip first on the rocky ground. Nothing was broken, but he was going to have trouble enough walking, not even considering the rest of the night's activities. Every wheezing step towards the powerstation was a struggle but the day after the pain would linger regardless, so it would be for naught if he gave up.

This was a particularly popular era in Battersea's history and a conservative estimate would put at least a dozen people passing through the turnstiles every week. The security measures changed constantly but with patience, persistence we reached the roof and those stark white smokestacks. The southwest smokestack had been wrapped to a quarter of her height in scaffolding, leading to the generally accepted highest point, ergo: the top. Sitting on the scaff staring up at the clouds streaking across the sky, bathed in dirty yellow light pollution, the stacks looming above and almost seeming to lean out over us, it was obvious this wasn't the top. The top was up there. Chemicals and emotions rushed through my body, fear, excitement, adrenaline - could we really do this? The doubts withered quickly as SL clipped into the first bolt and begin to climb.



Like a dark caterpillar upon a giant white bole he inched his way up in an efficient, choreographed dance anyone could tell he'd done a hundred times before. Clip above and stand, clip above and stand. With every few meters gained he reached back, lazily took a quickdraw between his rough fingers and attached his safety line into the old metal eyelets. His ease and finesse inspired such confidence, any thought of backing out melted away unnoticed.

Snappel followed. For those first few meters he ground his teeth, scrunched up his face and swore like a sailor. Once he found his rhythm nothing short of collapse would stop him. While he took a couple of photos up top a helicopter passed overhead, seemingly oblivious to our antics. For those brief few moments we all froze up expecting the worst but it continued on its way to business elsewhere and we got on with ours. Snappel dropped back down and I clipped my ascenders straight on. We'd lost a lot of time somewhere along the way and sunlight was starting to leak slowly across the sky.



I staplegunned up the rope more easily than I expected, stopping occasionally to decrimp my hands and place them against the white surface of the stack, feeling the faint texture of cracked paint beneath my fingers. I laughed to myself, how sentimental I'd become over a little cracked paint; it would be ridiculous were we not dangling 50 meters above the ground suspended by a couple of bolts driven into the century old brickwork of one of the world's most famous powerstations. The view from atop the stack was spectacular. A gorgeous clear dawn cracked, like a giant wave slowly spreading over the landmarks of this great metropolis. St Pauls, the gherkin, London Eye, Big Ben, the 2 solemn stacks of Lots Road far in the distance and the ziggurat of the powerstation below was all mesmerising. I took out the rangefinder loaded with Velia, rested it atop an eyelet sticking from the bricks and snapped off a 3 stop bracket. I didn't even look bother to through the viewfinder as the sun had crested the horizon and we really, really had to leave.

The devilishly simple skyhook and rigging unclipped, I detached the static line and leant back so SL could belay me down. About halfway a noise distracted me and looking over my shoulder I saw 2 yellow suited security guards shambling onto the site pointing upwards and yelling at the top of their voices. Since nobody seemed to be climbing the other stacks I presumed they were hollering at us. Why you'd intentionally distract someone dangling precariously from a rope is truly baffling though. What was I doing to do, wave and offer them tea?



As we stashed and stowed all the gear the same whub-whub-whub-whub we'd heard earlier echoed over us, joined in duet by the wail of a siren rapidly approaching. We shared a wry smile as it was all shaping up to be a rare treat.

With the deed done and little left to say we were ejected from the site with a slam of the gate behind. We sauntered off down the quiet industrial street as around us London woke for the day. Too late to sleep I rolled home, freshened up and bombed back along the canal on my bike to work. Digging through my backpack I found my phone chirping away. Just like the start of this whole debacle I received a text from Snappel.

The message simply read "Did that really happen or did I dream it?" In that sleep deprived, dopamine saturated derilerium anyone could all be mistaken for wondering the very same.