The Great Arch | Robbie Phillips Interview

Manika Patel sat down with Robbie to reflect on his journey from sport climbing to bold trad routes, the lessons he’s learned on and off the rock, and how climbing fuels both his creativity and commitment to the outdoors.

How, when, and why did you start climbing?
I actually got into climbing through the Duke of Edinburgh Award. My mum signed me up for the Bronze Award. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about camping at the time, and honestly, I still don’t love it. I’ve got a camper van now, which is much more my speed.

The Award meant doing a sport, a skill, and some charity work. I remember walking into the school library and seeing a folder with a list of sports - all the classics, rugby, football, tennis, badminton. Right at the bottom, someone had handwritten “rock climbing,” and I thought, yeah, that sounds like a good one.

So I went along to Alien Rock 2 in Leith, Scotland’s first commercial bouldering wall, and met Johannes Peterson. He was in his mid-20s, full of energy, and became my first climbing mentor. Every Friday he’d give me drills, introduce me to other climbers, and really pull me into the community. At the end of the Award, I thought, “Oh, that’s it, climbing’s over.” He laughed and said, “Man, you can just keep coming.” That spark stuck, and climbing quickly became a regular part of my life.

What was the turning point from indoor to outdoor climbing?
I wouldn’t say there was a single moment. Competitions were always something I balanced alongside outdoor climbing rather than a defining turning point. They’re great when you’re young, they teach focus, training, and how to handle both success and failure. I was on the British team around 18 or 19, seeing how far I could go, but honestly, it never inspired me to my core.

Outdoor climbing felt more like me. Adventure has always been central to who I am, and climbing outside gave me a sense of freedom, exploration, and community that indoor climbing couldn’t. One formative experience was my first solo sport climbing trip at Céüse when I was 16. Camping there, meeting climbers from all over the world, figuring things out on my own — that really clicked. There are still some climbers like Katie Whittaker who I’m in touch with even now. That’s when climbing became more than a sport for me.

Where do you feel most yourself when you’re climbing, and why?
I feel most myself when I’m exploring, discovering new lines, finding untouched boulders, or seeing familiar places in a way that feels personal. There’s a treasure-hunting element to climbing that excites me as much as the climbing itself.

For example, I was bouldering at Carn Liath yesterday, probably the biggest boulder field in the British Isles, with hardly anything developed. I went back to a problem I’d cleaned last year and spent the afternoon working it. Then I got completely sidetracked by other boulders and ended up finding an incredible overhanging block perched on a ridgeline with 360-degree views. That excitement, that joy of discovery, is when I feel most myself.

How do you work with fear and doubt, and why does it matter at every level?
Fear can actually be healthy, it stops you from making mistakes that could seriously harm you. Early on, I was definitely on the “ignorant of the risks” end of the spectrum.

When I first started trad climbing, I got through a lot by just not knowing what could go wrong. But after a serious accident, one that could have disabled me, I realised just how dangerous it could be.

I used to think bold trad climbers were just brave, throwing caution to the wind, but the best ones aren’t reckless. They’re bold because they’re incredible risk assessors. They know their limitations, read situations, and are deeply intuitive about how they feel on the wall.

I remember Dave MacLeod telling me, just before he climbed Lexicon, that when he reached a certain hold on the headwall, he knew if he felt right, he’d go for it, and if he didn’t, he wouldn’t. That level of self-awareness only comes with experience. That’s why I love onsight trad climbing: there are no shortcuts, you’re stepping into uncertainty, and you have to manage your safety yourself.

When did you realise you didn’t need medals or accolades to be a ‘good’ climber?
I can’t point to one moment, but in my early twenties I remember struggling with the pressure of performance-oriented climbing circles. Grades and sending projects were all anyone talked about. I felt like the pressure was coming a lot from outside, when it really wasn’t. I started losing my psych, so I took a break from sport climbing.

A friend invited me to Australia. I thought, I’m gonna go and hang out with my mate and be part of the Australian climbing community for a bit. It felt like an adventure. That trip was amazing. I even got my first taste of first ascending and got to name a route, which was fantastic. I immediately planned a big multi-pitch trip to the Dolomites for the following year.

The key was that I didn’t go out there to achieve. That completely reframed how I see climbing. I still have goals, I still love trying hard, but now climbing is just climbing. Getting to the top is a happy by-product. Success no longer defines whether the experience is worthwhile.

How would you define your climbing now?
I wouldn’t say I’m a sport climber, trad climber, or boulderer. I’m a rock climber. I love all forms of climbing and enjoy challenge, but I’ve had to reframe things so that success isn’t the measure of enjoyment.

What does ‘adventure’ mean to you?
Adventure has two sides. There’s no adventure without uncertainty, so I would say for me, the pursuit of adventure is the pursuit of uncertainty, challenges where the outcome is unknown and there’s some level of risk, and you’re using your experience outdoors to keep yourself safe.

I also think adventure is exploration, and with exploration comes creativity. It can be trad climbing or mountaineering, but also sport climbing or trudging along a 40-minute boggy approach to a boulder field. Even without big risk, it can feel adventurous. Exploration is driven by curiosity and creativity — seeing something others might not, or just noticing it in a new way.

What is The Great Arch, and why is it such a special line?
The Great Arch is huge, probably the largest arch feature in the British Isles. It’s 100 metres high. In the mid-90s, the legendary American climber Lynn Hill and the Scottish climber Dave Cuthbertson, also known as Cubby, attempted the first ascent. It was documented by the BBC in a series called The Face. They famously got to the last five metres of the horizontal roof but couldn’t quite make it. Later, Steve McClure and Lucy Creamer tried it, and eventually Dave MacLeod made the first free ascent.

For me, it was also a storytelling opportunity. I actually find climbing films without story a bit boring. Looking back, the films that really resonated with me over the years, like Valley Uprising, always had strong stories and characters that drew me in rather than the climbing itself. History gives the story even more power. In the film I’m making, I try to tell a contemporary story, my own connection with the climb, the landscape, nature, and the climbers, past and present.

What drew you to it personally, and why did it feel like the right moment?
Partly, it’s just a magnificent climb. But I’m also friends with Cubby, who’s put up a lot of routes I admire. Climbing lines connected to people you respect is one of the things I love about this sport. It’s landscape and community at the same time.

What were the biggest challenges — mentally, physically, and logistically?
Honestly, the biggest challenge was juggling the climb with filming. Everything had to happen in one day, with no second chances. Ryan was on first camera, Emil on drone and second camera. I had to climb, perform, and make sure we captured every shot.

During the Bombay chimney, you took your helmet off mid-pitch. What was going through your head?
What you don’t see is that I had already tried to get up into the chimney, but I couldn’t turn my head around. I had to come down, take my helmet off, and hope I wouldn’t fall with my head stuck.

Looking back, what are you proudest of about the ascent?
I’m proud of everything, everyone nailing their jobs — Ryan and Emil absolutely crushed it. It’s a perfect example of 20 years of experience coming together: reading movement, rigging efficiently, and tackling a huge project. Hopefully, the film inspires people to have adventures. You don’t need Yosemite or the Dolomites to climb something amazing. The UK has incredible landscapes and climbs too.

Why does conservation and activism matter to you?
I’ve always felt deeply connected to wild places and animals. Climbing constantly puts you in environments where you interact with wildlife — fulmars, seals, mice at the crag. As someone using these spaces, I feel a responsibility to protect them. I try to weave that into my films and storytelling to raise awareness.

What about widening access to climbing and the outdoors?
Accessibility means breaking down barriers, whether financial, transport, or social. Climbing is expensive — walls, shoes, gear, travel. I come from a privileged background and am aware of that, which is why I support organisations like Urban Uprising and Albyn Outdoors, helping kids from disadvantaged backgrounds get into climbing.

What role does storytelling play in your climbing and life?
I had two mentors, Neil Busby and Neil McGeachy, who taught me to “imbibe the spirit of climbing.” Climbing isn’t just performance; it’s community, landscape, history, wildlife. I try to reflect that in my films, bringing in as many elements as feel right without muddying the story. Whether it’s fulmars on a sea cliff, historical threads, or unexpected side stories, I like showing the richness of climbing beyond just the moves.

Looking ahead to 2026, what’s next for you?

I’m based on Skye, working on a film about British trad culture with Edelrid. I’m developing bouldering and trad projects on Skye, some quick, some long-term. I’ve got trips planned to Ireland, and I’m doing my MCI this July. I don’t want to guide full-time, but guiding a few days a year feels like another string to my bow. Mostly, I just want to keep climbing as much as possible.

Quickfire

• Tent or bothy? Bothy
• Slab, vert, or overhang? Vert
• Crimp or sloper? Crimp
• Victory whip or casual lower? Victory whip
• Long run-out or committing highball? Long run-out
• Yorkshire grit or Cuillin gabbro? Cuillin gabbro
• Sustained hard climbing or one-move wonder crux? Sustained hard climbing