February 24, 2026

From Friary to Flatirons: The Secret History of Guildford’s Climbing Scene

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Guildford, Surrey. To the casual observer, it’s a picture-perfect historic market town, dominated by the majestic spire of the cathedral and the cobbled high street. But look up. Look past the castle and the rooftops. Turn to the steep slope of the scarp rising to the west. There is a secret in that ridge, the Hog’s Back. This part of the North Downs has long been a silent shrine, a coarse training-ground, and the improbate centre of a most lively and fanatical society.

The history of the Guildford climbing scene is a hidden one, written in chalk dust and grip sweat. It is a story that dates back way before the discovery of the sticky rubber. This is even before its world-renowned reputation that attracts international athletes. Fans from all backgrounds can gather in digital communities to engage with their favourite sports events on an online casino for real money.

The Call of the Chalk: A Geological Playground

In order to know the climbing, you must know the rock. The Hog’s Back is a slender, lengthy crest of Cretaceous chalk, running like a spine between Farnham and Guildford. It is a terrain that is made of the sea that existed a long time ago, the compacted bodies of myriads of little creatures.

In contrast to the jagged, crystalline grit of the North, or the volcanic precipices of the Lake District, this chalk is a malleable, crumbly and usually frightening medium. To the uninitiated, it appears to be positively perilous, a steep, white slope of what is apparently the compacted dust. To the initiated, however, it is a delicate and technical utopia. The rock demands respect.

The rock demands respect. It requires a balletic touch, a reliance on friction and smearing rather than jug-like holds. This unique characteristic has defined the Guildford style for generations: precise footwork, body tension, and a cool head. The climbers forged here don’t just pull down; they dance on a vertical canvas of white.

The geological history is laid bare in the steeply sloping beds of chalk. This gives the crags their characteristic rake and provides the variety of steep walls and slabby runnels. These have challenged and delighted climbers for nearly a century.

The Monks and the Mountains: A Curious Connection

The earliest chapters of this history are, admittedly, speculative, but they are steeped in a romantic possibility. The “Friary” in our title isn’t just a convenient alliteration. Guildford was once home to a Dominican Friary, founded in the 13th century near the river. While there is no direct record of medieval monks engaging in what we would recognise as rock climbing, their presence on the Hog’s Back is a matter of historical record.

The peak of the ridge was an important route, a portion of an ancient road, and afterwards, a pilgrim and royal path. The friars, in their plain robes, making the journey between Farnham and Guildford, is not hard to imagine. Maybe, in a spiritual retreat, they would stop at the rim of the cliff. Were they looking up the steep drop in the same awe which modern climbers look upon?

But the notion that these early settlers of the “Friary” were the earliest to cross the ground of the “Flatirons” (the term commonly used about the area locally to denote the jagged, sharp buttresses of chalk upon which the evening sun rests) is a strong one.

The Post-War Pioneers: Grit and Gumption

It was in the mid-20th century that the climbing scene in Guildford really took off. In the years following World War II, a new kind of adventurer emerged. Often, these were young men from the area (servicemen from Aldershot and students at the University of Surrey) armed with surplus military equipment and an unquenchable thirst for adventure. The Alps and the Lake District were far-off aspirations for them, needing considerable time and financial resources to access. Nonetheless, the Hog’s Back was immediately at their doorstep.

It was the era of the “greats,” tough individuals clad in wool sweaters and nailed boots who viewed the imposing chalk cliffs as a challenge. They did not have high-end cameras or sticky rubber. They had hemp ropes tied around their waists, a few cumbersome pitons, and a whole lot of guts. They established the first “routes,” not by cleaning the rock, but by simply finding a way up. Names like the “Pinnacle” and “The Buttress” entered the local lexicon. It was a rough-and-ready scene, driven by pure passion. The Friary, by then perhaps just a street name, was being replaced by a different kind of devotion… a devotion to the vertical.

These pioneers discovered that the chalk, despite its softness, offered a unique form of climbing. It required a delicate touch. They learned to trust the friction of their rubber soles on the smooth slabs, a skill that would become the hallmark of the Guildford climber. The secrets of the chalk were being unlocked, one precarious step at a time.