Where, or more importantly, what is this place? And why is it profiled on a web site potentially visited by, say, South African climbers?
Well..
Kullaberg is in Sweden, southern Sweden, also called Skåne, an hour or so north of Malmø, a principal city of the region.
It is a climbing area. At least that's how I mostly remembers it. To the vast majority of visitors it's a golf course. Or a scenic picnic area.
And Kullaberg is on this web site despite the areas shortfalls, of which there are many, because it means a good deal to me. And given the freedom of the Web I can, at no cost, with minimum effort, publish a page dedicated to this crag. Whether anybody ever reads it, is somehow less important to me.

Denmark is a small country. As small as they come. Most National Parks in America are bigger. A population of 5 million. In other words, to keep the Park analogy running, about the amount of gawking tourists on Grand Canyons South Rim in one summer season, it seems. But very unlike said chasm, Denmark is utterly flat. No climbing. No rocks anywhere.
In Sweden, across the strait, is lots of rock, really good rock. Some areas are among the finest in Europe, with spectacular granite, splitter cracks and beautiful walls. The Swedes know this, and being an outdoor minded nation, has bred scores of good climbers that naturally take advantage of this resource.
But down south, right across from little Denmark is a peninsula of fractured gneiss, which somehow was overlooked by exploring swedish climbers back in the days when such areas were discovered and developed. Maybe they were there and concluded, rightly so, that their efforts were better spend on more attractive rock. Or, more likely, these intrepid pioneers found, much to their astonishment, hundreds of already established routes, a full featured guidebook and a long history of climbing dating back to the early sixties. All put in swing by an invasion of visiting Danes. Because it was right there. And because the Danes themselves don't have anything.
The narrow, rugged peninsula of Kullaberg protrudes into the sea of Kattegat, from an otherwise idyllic and charming coastline. The immediate image the word sea cliffs conjures up is that of Gogarth, the arch demon of coastal climbing: Committing, over-the-top scary routes swept by North Sea swells, with an ambiance of dread, darkness and doom unmatched anywhere. That's why Gogarth is so famous, that even I, who never has been anywhere near the place, can feel the fear. Kullaberg's north coast on grey fall days with racing, low clouds and pounding swells have some of that Gogarthian intensity. But the routes generally lack charisma. The walls are short, the gneiss loose and blocky. Let's put it this way: If Kullaberg weren't on the coast, it might well be the most uninspiring crag around.
Kullaberg is a danish climbing arena by all measures. We even changed the name to Kullen, to better suit the danish tongue. We publish the guidebook, we put up 90% of the routes, we run the climbing courses. We were there first. Visit on any weekend, year round, and you'll find Carstens Rende swarming with Danes. Kullaberg is what sustained the danish climbing community, allowed it to exist, and possibly created it in the first place. Today I hear it is different. With all the indoor walls all over Denmark, the community is actually growing (imagine that!), albeit in a totally different direction, and if Kullaberg suddenly sunk into the sea, folks would be all right. There would still be plastic.
But back in the day, no off season weekend would be complete without a trip up there. We wouldn't even look at the weather forecast. Climbing was going to happen no matter the conditions. The tight group of friends, which really was all the community was, got bonded by these outings. We had been around a bit, seen the real stuff, so we knew Kullaberg was on the low end of the scale concerning quality.

To be continued...