Rylstone Cross

I didn't really feel up to taking on yorkshire gritstone today. But did anyway. A superb situation on the edge of the moors.
Routes meandering through the intricate three dimensional rockscape, seeking - or avoiding - the path of least resistance.
Grit-bitten hands and wrists plunged deep into her declivities, gratefully, painfully. Big moves, butch pulls up improbable overhangs, high steps and delicate tip-toeing up her slabs alike.
Sudden insecurity, wavering. Realisation that a slip now means groundfall. Sweating palms. The relief of a crack for gear. Bodies moving, dictated by the passage of eons. The top.