Belfry Bulletin Number 290

75

76

Volume 25 December 1971

Number 12 Number 290

CONTENTS

FESTIVE SEASON

Caving Caving in Switzerland Free Diving in Swildons IX Caving Trips 1972 Pant Mawr Pothole The Five Caves Show

82 84 88 93 94

Climbing Letterewe Forest

89

Humour Report of the B.B.L.H.S.R.C. Chevre- Eglise The Weegee goes West

78 86 90

Club Business Editorial Publications The B.B. in 1972

Editorial

76 77 87

Miscellaneous Crossword No. 17 96 ____________________________________ Opinions expressed in all articles except those coming from the committee as a whole do not necessarily reflect club policy.

Editor, S.J. Collins, Lavender Cottage, Bishop Sutton, Nr. Bristol.

As usual, we try to produce a bigger version of the B.B. for Christmas. This year has not been a vintage year for the B.B., but we hope that it may not fizzle out too badly with this issue.

Again, as usual, we concentrated more on the lighter side for the Christmas issue. The B.B. Literary Historic and Scientific Report – thinly disguised a Alfie- is with us again – this year with a romance, ‘Jok’ is also with us again, his venue has moved from Scotland to North Wales.

We are also publishing a story by John Letheren, of the M.N.R.C., in the style of a well known caving writer.

Plus, of course, articles on the more usual forms of caving, climbing, etc.

Next year, the B.B. changes its shape, cover, layout and (dare we predict) amount of reading matter per month.

See you in a new guise next month, and meanwhile, a very Merry Christmas.

M.C.R. – R.I.P.?

A rumour recently reached us to the effect that the Mendip Cave Registry has ‘just about packed up’. If true, this seems a great pity. Hywel Murrell had the original idea of collecting every known reference to Mendip caves and arranging for these to be kept up to date and systematically filed. Copies of the Registry are lodged in Bristol and Wells Public Libraries, where it was hoped that they would form a useful source of information for research purposes. We believe, for example, that the registry contains over six feet of typewritten references to Swildons Hole alone – an invaluable starting point for any future historian who might wish to record the story of its exploration and, more to the point, get it right!

The work of the Registry is, by its nature, unspectacular and also unrewarding, except perhaps for the satisfaction of knowing that the record is being preserved for the future. If the rumour of its impending death is true, it would be nice to think that some young caver might fill the gap and taken it on – even nicer if he was a member of the B.E.C.!

ADDRESSES The up to date list of members addresses published in the November B.B. will be kept up to date during the coming year by publishing new member’s addresses and old member’s corrections in each B.B. Thus, every member will have access to the latest available information. A complete list will still be printed in November next. By this method, it is hoped that addresses will not go astray and that the postal department will be kept informed of all changes of address.

77 DIARY Elsewhere in this issue, some of the changes scheduled for next year are mentioned. A further useful change will be the publications of all events in the form of a monthly diary. This will be taken from the ‘What’s On?’ notice which Belfry regulars will by now be familiar with. If YOU get to hear of anything in the future which you think will interest club members see Dave Irwin and put it in the ‘What’s On?’ notice in the Belfry. It will then automatically get printed in the B.B. COMPLAINTS It is rumoured that some members express, from time to time, a degree of dissatisfaction with the way in which club officers and the club committee run the affairs of the club. We say rightly that it is rumoured, since there have been no complaints. If there is any basis in this tale, then it must be pointed out that constructive comment is always welcome. Our committee meetings are – in general – open to all members.

Why not come along and put your problem to the committee or give your advice? After all, we do pride ourselves on being a democratic body. You might even found yourself running something!

“Alfie” _______________________________________________________________________________________

CAVING PUBLICATIONS All the following items are available from Dave Irwin at the Belfry or at 8 Radnor Road, Westbury-onTrim, Bristol.

CAVING REPORTS No.5.

No.6.

No. 13

No. 15

Headwear and Lighting, 70pp, P.G. Available late Jan 72.

Smaller Caves of Mendip Vol. 1. (Includes Hunters) G. St. Cuthbert’s Swallet: Part A. Discovery and Exploration. 38pp. O.P. Part E. Rabbit Warren. 20pp, O.P.S. Part F. Gour Hall Area. 14pp. O.P.S. Part H. Rabbit Warren Extension. 12pp. O.P.S. Part I. September series. 12pp. O.P.S. (Jan 1972) Roman Mine. 50pp. O.P.S. and many line illustrations.

Copies of ‘Reflections’ (Alfie’s Spaeleodes) still around at 50p.

35p 15p 30p 22p 15p 15p 10p 60p

SURVEYS 20p Ubley Warren Pot (dyeline) 30” x 15” 10p East Twin (O) 10p Avelines (O) 10p YORKSHIRE: Marble Steps (O) 10p Rumbling (O) 25p Leck Fell (inc. Lost Johns) 48” x 24” (O) 30p Notts Pot (inc. recent discoveries) 36” x 24” (O) Other surveys including Swildons, Longwood, Stoke Lane, Eastwater, available during January 1972.

MENDIP:

Abbreviations used above S=Survey. O=Offset. G=Gestetner. P=Photos.

STOP PRESS: Two new reports are in the pipeline and will be available shortly. No. 14 – Roy Bennett’s account of the 1970 club visit to the Pyrenees. (15p) and No. 16 – John Eatough’s Balch Cave collection of photographs with some of Roy Pearce’s Shatter Cave. (30p).

WHY NOT TREAT YOURSELF TO SOME CAVING REPORTS AND SURVEYS FOR CHRISTMAS?

78

ANNUAL REPORT OF THE B.B. L.H. & S.R.G.

Introductory Note: Inn the dim recesses of a Mendip pub, a group of old men were desperately trying to flog what was left of their brains. Cooking bitter was flowing like water. The Belfry Bulletin Literary, Historic and Scientific Research Group were having an emergency meeting. They had agreed, in view of their recent research programmes that the subject for this year should be a literary one.

Pilot research scheme had failed to find any undiscovered bits of Shakespeare mentioning the B.E.C. They sat there, crying tears of bafflement into their beer which threatened to reduce its gravity below that required by law to be sold in a public house. At last, a young caver who happened to be listening made a suggestion. “Why not, “he said,” write a romance.

The old men looked at each other, trying hard to remember what a romance was. In the end, they said that they doubted if there was any caving romance which they could unearth with their researches. “To hell with research!” the young caver said. “Why don’t you just WRITE one?” The old men pondered. They agreed that it should be possible in theory at any rate. It was, at least, and idea which was more than they had had to date. At length they said that they would have a go, and it is with considerable trepidation that they present the following story for your Christmas entertainment.

The Last Tour de Mendip or A TALE OF VIRTUE TRIUMPHANT At three minutes past seven on a lovely summer morning, Cora Cavepearl – the toast of cavers from Banwell to Bottlehead – opened her beautiful eyes and gazed through her bedroom window at the general scenery beyond.

Finding this to her satisfaction, she moved her shapely limbs into a more comfortable position and fell to musing. Today was, of course, the great day in the Mendip calendar – the start of the fearsome Tour de Mendip – and she wondered if she had been a silly girl in promising to marry the winner. On the whole, she was inclined to think not. Harold Hardman would almost certainly win, and she found this chunk of manhood suitable attractive. True, he had remarkably little brain, but that need be no disadvantage. One brain in the family, Cora felt, was quite enough providing that the brain was hers.

It was, or course, just possible that Hardman might be beaten by the Yorkshire contender, Arthur Appentwill. Arthur had, after all, won the Five Pots Race twice in succession. Although not so handsome as Hardman, he was a great rugged creature and the fact that he possessed even less brain than Hardman, she dismissed with a toss of her lovely head.

At seven minutes passed seven, Hardman woke up; leaped out of bed flexing his magnificent muscles; did a dozen press ups; took a cold shower and went off in search of breakfast (having, you will note, not dressed – it’s dead easy for us authors to slip up on little details like this!). There is little point in attempting to describe Hardman’s thought except to say that he had a vague idea that he would win both the race and Cora.

Some two minutes later, another drip of water wore another bit away from a certain boulder in a cave, which was now approaching a condition of instability.

At half past seven, Percy Potterer woke up and realised that this was the day of the start of the Tour de Mendip. Although a young man, Percy was a caver of the old type. He had read about the days when cavers just messed about in caves – before the hard sporting types, tiring of normal trips, has introduced cave racing. This year, the Southern Council had finally banned all types of caving other than racing, which was why Percy had reluctantly entered for the Tour de Mendip.

79 There was another reason, as Percy admitted to himself with a grin. He had been in love with Cora Cavepearl ever since she had first come to Mendip, but she had eyes only for the glamorous racing men.

Still, she said that she would marry the winner of the Tour de Mendip this year and Percy had a simple faith in the old way of doing things. __________________ By ten o’clock that morning, a great crowd had gathered outside Stoke Lane Slocker, which was the first cave in the race. Bookmaker’s stands were doing brisk business, and Cora herself had bets on Hardman and Appentwill at the stand of Honest Bob Bagshaw. A hush fell on the great crowd and the contestants arrived.

One by one they came up to the staring line. Their rock suits – those incredibly tough plastic suits which enabled them to absorbed blows against sharp rock as they caved at high speed – were covered with proficiency badges and medals of past races won; their sleek speed hats had lamps a gleam in the sunlight and their tacky boots, which could maintain an incredible grip on any surface, were adorned with the foot jets which they could use to leap up small pitches or do a forty foot chimney in two moves. There was a particularly loud cheer as Hardman took his stand on the line, and an almost equal one for Appentwill from hundreds of visiting Yorkshire throats.

Cora looked at her two heroes, who stood out even amongst that galaxy of caving talent, and felt a thrill of pride. Suddenly she heard scornful laughter and saw the last contender, Potterer, arrive at the start. He wore an old fashioned caving hat, of the sort you could see only in museums. Ancient cast-off clothes enveloped his body and in his hand, incredibly, was a candle. A single badge had been apologetically sewn to his outer sweater – that of the Basic Caving Proficiency Certificate, giving him the minimum qualification for this open race.

The starter’s pistol rang out and they were off! There was a gasp from the crowd as the tattered figure of Potterer – not encumbered with heavy gear for this cave – took the lead and reached the entrance first. Once in the crawls, however, Potterer took his time as the thought of being underground again gave him that familiar relaxed feeling. In vain the hard speedsters tried to overtake him in those narrow tubes, but were forced to cave at his strange, leisurely pace. It was a favourite trick of cave racing on the odd occasion when one got close enough to the man in front, to attempt to melt his tacky boot soles, thus making them completely slippery. The chance to do this occurred but rarely except on this particular trip, when every body had all the time in the world to make good use of it. The only bloke impervious to this treatment was Potterer himself, whose ancient ammunition boots with their well worn hobnails stubbornly refused to melt – not being made of plastic.

At Cairn Chamber, Potterer was finally overtaken by a frustrated mob who nerves were worn to shreds and whose judgment had gone for a complete chop. Bods, using their foot jets, hurl themselves through the duck – where many collided with each other and the rock face – to be washed unconscious through the sump.

Potterer took a careful sight on the sump, extinguished his candle, dived it and re-lit his candle. A scene of utter chaos greeted him as he watched those who survived the crush at the duck and sump. Their footwear was now so slippery that they could hardly stand up and everywhere, bods were trying to get some kind of grip, and were at last forced to crawl down the stream route while Potterer wandered happily round the Throne Room, taking a few photographs of such formations as had survived.

The crowd who had gathered around the exit from Stoke – the one that had been dug into Bone Chamber as part of the abortive attempt to make it into a show cave – was in a restless mood. The usual time for this first leg of the Tour de Mendip was just under 30 minutes, and over an hour had gone by without anyone appearing. Judges muttered to each other; bookmakers wore their most guileless expressions and timekeepers nervously fiddled with their stop watches. At 11.40, Hardman emerged hardly able to stand up.

At 11.42, Appentwill crawled out of the exit. At various intervals, six more men, the pride of their various clubs, staggered out, clutching each other for support. At exactly twelve noon Potterer came out; took a good breath of fresh air and ran smartly to the finishing line to finish 9th in a field of over fifty. No more men came out after him. The Judges let a little more time go by and then signalled to the grim faced Rescue Marshals who went in to fetch out the injured – and possible dead.

In silence the nine suvivors were taken by special transport to the next leg of the Tour de Mendip – St. Cuthbert’s, for a leg to Sump I and back by any route. This time the position was reversed. All the other eight carried lightweight ropes; descendeurs; prussikers and grappling hooks for whatever pitches they

80 planned to do. Potterer, on the other hand, had a huge bundle of wood and rope ladder for the entrance and Arête Pitches. As they stood at the staring line, waiting for the pistol, Hardman sneered at Potterer, “I fancy you won’t be able to muck us all about this time!”

The crowd had, to some extent, recovered its spirits, and honest Bob Bagshaw was again doing brisk trade on the reduced field. At the ‘off’, Hardman and Appentwill leapt into the lead. Potterer was last into the hole.

Meanwhile, in far away G.B., another drip of water dissolved another small piece of rock, making a certain boulder that much less stable.

Once again, as soon as he found himself underground, Potterer let the peace of the place permeate his spirit and leisurely slung his first ladder down the Entrance Pitch. By the time he had got down; sorted out his second ladder and re-lit his candle, the leaders had reached Sump I and were on their way back. As Potterer prepared to lower his second ladder down Arête Pitch, he was greeted by the whistling sound of a well aimed grappling hook thrown from below by Appentwill, who had reached this spot on his way back.

The hook lodged securely amongst boulders beside Potterer, who was intrigued by the thinness of the line up which Appentwill was about to prussik. He leaned forward to examine it, bringing his candle nearer in order to see it properly. To be fair, Potterer was not to know that the plastic which made such thin ropes possible was inflammable. Appentwill was halfway up when the rope parted. Luckily, his fall was broken by two other cavers who had just reached the spot. Potterer tried to revive the three of them on his way down, but without success.

When Potterer finally emerged, with an aggregate time of 7 hours 3 minutes, it was to find himself placed fifth. Hardman’s aggregate was 2 hours 12 minutes with the other three close behind. Owing to the unprecedented long times taken so far, the judges announced that the day’s caving had now ended and that the next two legs – of Eastwater and Swildons – would have to be cancelled. The Tour de Mendip would be completed on the Sunday with the Rhino-August-Longwood through trip and finish with the traditional G.B. The news of Appentwill’s accident was taken badly by the strong Yorkshire contingent, and in nearly all the Mendip pubs and huts that night vicious fights broke out as Mendip and Yorkshire cavers – inflamed with cooking bitter – beat each other senseless.

Cora Cavepearl was beside herself with worry. She now felt that anything could happen. If Hardman lost, the next most fancied contender – according to Honest Bob Bagsahw – was one Rodney Ratrun – a mean looking ferrety faced man with a horrible squint. She shuddered and tried to get to sleep, hardly daring to think of the morrow. ________________________ The morrow of that momentous weekend dawned even finer than had the Saturday. At ten o’clock, the five cavers – only survivors of that vast band of twenty four hours ago – assembled at the starting line outside Rhino. Hardman, Ratrun and the other two each carried a few hundred feet of line and descendeurs.

Beside Potterer stood a gigantic pile of four hundred feet of heavy and thick hemp rope. The crowd sighed with relief and amusement. Potterer would never be able to carry that pile to the entrance!

Once again the starter’s pistol rent the air. The four dashed off, and so, to everyone’s surprise, did Potterer; carrying one end of the rope which uncoiled behind him. While the others made fast to the prepared belays at the head of the drop, Potterer stood at the top, pulling in all of the rest of his rope until he had it all beside him, by which time the others were well down the hundred foot shaft.

Hardman and Ratrun had finished their descent, and had left their ropes behind while they race on down the connecting passage to August, bottoming Rhino at 10.12 and 10.14 respectively. At 10.16, the other two, starting down the last pitch, were horrified to see the remainder of Potterer’s four hundred feet of hemp rope coming whistling down the pitch towards them. It was the last thing that either of them saw for some time.

The next thing they saw was the interior of a hospital ward.

The crowd which had assembled at the entrance to Longwood – prepared for anything this time – were waiting quietly, mostly covered in bandages from the vicious fighting of the night before. They were pleasantly surprised to see Hardman emerge in good time and good order. A tremendous cheer – somewhat

81 forced in the case of those who were suffering form cracked ribs – greeted the announcement that Hardman ahd completed this lap in 58 minutes – the first time that this lap had been covered in less than one hour.

Hardman’s aggregate time was now 3 hours 10 minutes with Ratrun a close second at 3 hours 29 minutes.

But the crowd grew restive again, as they were forced to wait for more than three hours before Potterer appeared. It was rumoured that Potterer had been bribed by the Wessex to enter so as muck up the B.E.C. Another section of the crowd understood that he had been bribed by the Axbridge to muck up the Shepton.

Yet another faction believed that he had been hired by the M.C.G. to muck up everybody. Murmurs grew to growls and growls to shouts and shouts to blows as fights btoke out everywhere. Soon, people were hitting each other with reckless abandon. B.E.C. clobbered B.E.C. Wessex clobbered Wessex. Everyone else clobbered each other. When Potterer finally emerged, with an aggregate of 11 hours 18 minutes, only the judges and recorders noticed him do so.

Actually, there was one other person who noticed him. Cora Cavepearl had felt, for some strange reason she could not explain, an urge to see Potterer come out of Longwood. He smiled at her, unaccountably, she found herself smiling back.

At 2.13 pm, marshals had managed to clear a way through the prostrate forms of those fallen in the fighting to enable the transport to proceed to the last lap – G.B. to the bottom of the old cave and back. This final lap was by way of being and easy last minute sprint and normally took less than half an hour, allowing for the normal exhaustion of the competitors at this stage. Even though the organisers waited for some time for those who could still drive to get over to Gruffy Field to watch the start, it was a pitiable little cluster of people who watched the final line up.

At 4 o’clock, the three survivors lined up. At 4.02, Ratrun burst into hysterical sobs and said he could not go on with this devilish race, and he was led away by two blokes in white coats. At 4.06, Hardman and Potterer lined up once again.

At 4.07, the last drop of water dissolved the last bit of limestone off a certain rock in the cave, making it finally unstable.

At 4.08, the starter’s pistol jammed.

At 4.11, the two men finally ran for the entrance.

It was a close thing, but Hardman got there first. Summoning all his cave technique, he rushed ahead of Potterer who, although he had entered the cave full of resolve to beat Hardman, once again felt that strange peace settle over him as he caved gently down to the Gorge.

Once at the head of the Gorge, just by the Bridge, Potterer was struck by the beauty of the scene, illuminated as it was by the light of the returning Hardman. He set his old plate camera and, after a quick calculation, fired off a large charge of flash powder.

The rock which had been moving slowly towards instability happened to be the one in the roof that supported the well known sixteen foot stalactite, and the shock wave from the detonating flash powder provided the last impulse necessary to free it from the ceiling. Nearly a quarter of a ton of stal – freed at last from the roof – hurtled straight downwards. Some sixth sense warned Hardman of his plight and he tried to brake – too late. The end of the stal missed his body, but ripped through his rock suit, pinning him to the floor. If Hardman had been wearing old clothes like Potterer was, it would have been possible Potterer to free him. As it was, their combined efforts were in vain. Potterer promised to get help and began to make his way back to the surface – stopping only to look as some helictites which had somehow escaped the general racing damage of the last frantic years. _______________________ Apart from one judge and one timekeeper, there was nobody to greet Potterer as he finally stepped out of the entrance. After an hours had gone by, the crowd had drifted away – fed up to the teeth of cave racing and everything connected with it. The judge and timekeeper coldly pronounced Potterer to be the winner and then turned away, talking to each other about dinghy sailing; a sport which they seemed to think had some future to it. A lone Rescue Warden went in to get Hardman out.

82 When he reached level ground, he saw that she had not gone. She was sitting demurely of a gruff. A girl of her word, she had begun to think that Potterer might conceivably have a point. It was true that he had a better brain then she had, but on second thoughts, even this might have its advantages. Potterer approached the gruff. He sat down beside her. He smiled. “If you would like to carry these spare candles and the tripod back to our motorbike” he said, “while I carry the plate camera and the flash powder tray, we will be able to talk better about starting caving again on more sensible lines after we come back from our honeymoon.”

Meekly, the beautiful Cora followed her man towards a less hectic future. _______________________________________________________________________________________

CAVING IN SWITZERLAND …by ‘Mo’ Marriott.

Another year has sped by, and the long promised article for the B.B. has not materialised. So on this particular evening, I have decided to make amends and finish the job in one long session.

Since the winter of 1968-1969, the accent on caving in our group in Winterhur has shifted somewhat. After several years of work on a number of shaft systems, our attention changed to more horizontal caves. The reason for this could be the relatively slight rewards obtained from a great deal of effort on the deep caves.

The Ratikon area in the North east of Switzerland has been our main target for the past two years. This area borders on Austria and consists of a long ridge of massive limestones of cretaceous age. The ridge is interesting because of the high altitude of the limestones, which have been thrust boldly over a great mass of younger shales, the contact line lying at about 1,900 metres (6,200 bft). Much of the ridge stood above the glaciers and ice sheets during the last generation, and it is in this upper region that most of the caves occur.

A number of smaller caves have been known in the area since the eighteenth century. The oldest references that we have found is a man by the name of Weber who apparently entered a particular cave only to be accused of being in league with the devil by the local clergy! He suffered a rather warm death! The cave still bears his name today. However, apart from this, and the sparse visits paid by the various ‘classical’ explorers in the last century, very little has been done in this region.

The most interesting find was made during Whitsun 1969. We had spent much of the day struggling through very soft and wet snow to get a closer look at some of the ‘obvious’ cave entrances on the steep upper slopes of the mountain (on the Swiss side of the ridge, these slopes merge into vertical walls).

Enthusiasm was ebbing fast when we decided to look at ‘Just one more’ promising looking rift. At first sight, it seemed as if this rift petered out into piles of frost shattered rock just like all the others, but at the back of the rift, a low crawl over shattered rock was found with a powerful draft blowing out. We pushed ourselves into this passage as far as we could, but only after a few yards the by now tunnel like passage became almost filled to the roof by gravel.

A return was made some weeks later, and digging commenced. The temperature of the air rushing out of the small passage was only just above freezing (we measured 0.60C) and we had to return to the hot sunshine at the entrance every hour or so to thaw out. After several hours, a break through was made and the crawl continued, but about a hundred and fifty feet in, another digging session was required. This was rapidly accomplished, and the cave was open. In contrast to the entrance passage, with its frost shattered walls and low crawls, the following passages were roomy with fine sculptured walls and very little rock waste on the floor. Some of the wall scallops are the biggest I have ever seen, up to three feet across. The passages are almost entirely phreatic and are in places very big (about twenty feet in diameter) which, in view of the altitude of the cave (nearly 8,000 ft at the entrance) suggests a pre-glacial origin. Up till now, some 5,000 ft of cave have been surveyed with a total depth of 825 ft. This cave almost certainly connects with a number of smaller caves in the area, the whole appearing to be an old system which has been truncated by erosion.

The cave contains the remains of a large number of cave bears. Up till now we haven’t been able to determine where the bears entered the cave. Another interesting fact is that bats still enter the cave to over winter, despite the altitude and low temperature. For quite a long time we were stuck on what to call the cave, until someone discovered that we had opened it on the same day that the first man had set foot on the moon. So it was christened Appolohohle!

83 During the last summer’s trip to the area, we had the stout assistance of Colin Priddle for two weeks who, on the caving trips, wore the most motley assortment of tattered garments, which became more and more tattered after each trip! This year, we will again spend one or two weeks in the area to finish the exploration of the Appolohohle and to continue the search for other caves. If anyone, like Colin did last year, happens to be in the area in the summer, they are very welcome to join us.

Apart from the Ratikon, we have spent quite a lot of time trying to force our way into various risings which occur in the north of Switzerland. Many of these are for divers only (one has been penetrated by divers to about a quarter of a mile in length and a hundred and thirty feet in depth) but some have seasonal streams so that they almost dry up during the coldest weather. By a combination of chemical persuasion and good old fashioned elbow grease we have made progress in two risings, but with modest results so far. One of the problems in these caves is that of temperature difference between inside and outside in the winter.

Having spent an hour or so with a hammer and chisel in very damp surroundings, the effect of coming out into about 36 degrees of frost can be disturbing! For one thing, one’s clothes freeze solid in next to no time, and it doesn’t pay to hang around to long. Maybe by next year, we will have a second Holloch on our hands, and if so I will probably have to write another article.

Editor’s Note: We hope that our old friend “Mo” will write another article in any case. He certainly is keeping the B.E.C. flag flying in Switzerland by the sound of things. _______________________________________________________________________________________

BOOK REVIEW

WALKS IN LIMESTONE COUNTRY by A. Wainwright.

Published by Westmorland Gazette. Price £1.05. (One Guinea)

This book covers thirty four walks in the Yorkshire Dales and, although it is basically intended for walkers, it could almost be mistaken for a cave guide. It is printed from the original notes. It includes maps, relief maps and drawings o sites of interest (which included cave entrances). The major caving districts of the Dales are included in the walks (e.g. Ingleborough; Penyghent; Whernside; Easegill; Kingsdale; Leck Fell etc.) It could be very useful to newcomers to Yorkshire who may have difficulty in finding some of the caves.

There are many useful pieces of information for the walkers, such as where cafes are situated and whether hill tops shelters are still serviceable or not – for those who might be caught out in a storm. The book is soft bound and about the same size of ‘Caves of Mendip’. It is well worth the money – even for retired walkers for whom I am sure it will bring back memories. ______________________________________________________________________________________ Christmas comes but once a year So why not bring BOB BAGSHAW cheer?

He’d doubtless like a card from you Enclosing subs for ’72.

To pay subs in advance, you can Although they are not due till Jan. _______________________________________________________________________________________ BOYS FIND NEW ARCTIC CAVE

(Submitted by Tim Large).

A new cave in Arctic Norway’s Svartisen Glacier area was found by a party of two teachers and nine boys during a 3,000 mile overland expedition from Manchester. The cave – believed to be the third largest in Europe – was about a mile in length and 750 feet in depth with huge chambers and ice formations. _______________________________________________________________________________________ If YOU know of any club member who has not been getting his or her B.B. lately, ask them to give you their address and check it with the list of members addresses. If the address they have given you is different form that which the club has, then obviously, this is why they have had no B.B. Please, in that case, let Alan Thomas have the new address so that we can send B.B.’s to ALL members who ought to get them. Make this your good turn for Christmas.

84

Free Diving to Swildons IX (Time: Six Hours) …by Graham Phippen

On the twenty ninth of September 1971, five cavers: Dick Pike; Tony Jarrett (J.Rat); Peter Moody; Roger Libido and myself effectively free dived as far as Sump IX in Swildons. I am told that this was once achieved by two people once before, but it remains, I think, quite a fresh trip.

Dick Pike and J. Rat reached Sump IX using cylinders, and went further to inspect the recently opened Sump XIIa. Pete Moody arrived at Sump IV by free diving Sumps I, II and III, accompanying Dick and Tony. Roger and myself, lacking his confidence, skipped those sumps in favour of Blue Pencil, thus letting us down into the streamway before Sump IV. There the other three, well rested, eagerly awaited our laboured breathing and hurled invectives at us as we rounded that famous bend.

At Sump IV, Roger and myself assumed some M.R.O. weights and donned hood and face mask. All kitted up, Dick went first with his cylinder, and the rest of the party followed with Tony and his cylinder as ‘Tail end Charlie’.

Sump V is at present a series of short ducks, and presents no problem. Swildons between Sumps V and VI smells vile and so we travelled hot-foot to Sump VI. Most people would agree that this sump is an improbable free dive, being in the nature of a corkscrew and quite long. I am willing for the present to take people’s word for this and to use the by-pass.

This bypass is easily located to the left of the sump and about fifteen feet up. A fixed rope is conveniently placed to assist (Wot! Artificial aids? – Ed.) A few dozen feet into the bypass, there is a rift that opens up on the right. This is not the way on. Continue to the left and the way on is pretty straight forward. A mud sump will be encountered with fluid the consistency of cold porridge. This did not need bailing, but apparently it often does. Roger was at considerable disadvantage here. After passing this mud sump, all our lamps were covered with a thick coating of mud, thus making it difficult to see, but Roger wore glasses and couldn’t see for mud anyway.

After the bypass, the cave opens up into a high rift chamber. The stream is lost in boulder piles on the floor. Sump VII was dived by Tony and Dick, while the rest of us spent some time locating the bypass for it.

Sump VIII. Everyone seems to climb over the top of this one and leads very quickly to Sump IX. While Roger, Pete and myself were negotiating the bypass to VII, Dick and Tony has proceeded on their way to Sumps XII and XIIa, so we did not see them again until they surfaced from Sump IX. In Swildons XII, they went to have a look at Sump XIIa, at the end of a recently opened passage in XII. This sump has been since explored to twenty five feet and is reported to be going on. But where to? Many think back to Sump XII. Having all assembled again at Sump IX, there was no inclination to do anything else but make it hot foot out of the cave, as there was some doubt as to whether we should get in the requisite ‘sinks’ at the Hunters.

Roger and myself decided to go by sumps, instead of using Blue Pencil as we had on our way in. Tony left his cylinder upstream of IV leaving only Dick with an air supply for going back through Sumps III, II and I. I have been persuaded to write this article not to glorify my own exploits (it was a Wessex trip anyway) but because I foresee, when word gets around, a spate of people wanting to attempt the trip. If people wish to, then it is at their own discretion, but it would be as well if they were informed as to the difficulties they will encounter. I have described the trip more or less as it happened. Now I shall take each sump in turn, neglecting Sump I, as most people will be familiar with it.

SUMP II: This sump is at a guess, thirty five feet long, and is wide, open and level. This sump is large enough to get lost in, if you should be unfortunate enough to let go of the hand line – so hang on to it! Allow about fifteen seconds to get through. Relax and take it easy and there is no reason why you should be fighting for air when you surface. The distance between Sumps II and II is short and has no dry land between. A duck splits the passage into two chambers. As you come through the duck, look back and memorise it, as it can be difficult to find on returning.

85 SUMP III This is about the same length and size as Sump II but it goes deeper. I estimate that you have to go down about seven feet at the end before you come up for air. Again, about fifteen seconds to pass through and don’t be silly as to let go of the line. For these two sumps, lead weights are an advantage to counter the buoyancy of the body and wet suit. There is an M.R.O. weight dump upstream of II and another upstream of IV. If you borrow these weights, they must be put back whence they came. In Sump III, because you have to go down deeper, I found it a useful technique to turn a little on my side and push downwards with my legs thus keeping my body and head from dragging against the roof.

SUMP IV This can, of course, be arrived at via Blue Pencil which is considerably safer but more strenuous. Sump IV is about fifteen feet long, but tighter than two and three. Nowhere is there at present any severe constriction, though this seems subject of the amount of silting. The limits of the passage can be felt by arms and legs all the ways through but it is certainly not a squeeze.

SUMP V Owing to the prevailing dry conditions when we undertook the trip, Sump V was a series of short ducks.

The handline does not necessarily follow the line of these ducks, as we did not use it. When this sump actually sumps it is reported to be sixty feet long.

SUMP VI This is not a free dive, although I have met a diver who claims that he used no air in passing through it with a cylinder. It is thirty feet long, but with an awkward constriction. The bypass is to the left of the sump, marked with a fixed rope.

SUMP VII A bypass has been recently opened to Sump VII, which, again, is not a free dive. The bypass is in the form of a duck into a short sandy passage as originally found. However, a little chemical persuasion brought the roof down and closed it. On our trip, we ferreted around and eventually found our way into this bypass by rolling back a heavy boulder revealing and easy squeeze over a pool water. This boulder is to be found to the left of the sump at about the position of the start of the handline going through the sump. The boulder rocks, and this acts rather like a trapdoor. It is half underwater. Good hunting!

SUMP VIII

SUMP IX

There is a short and easily found bypass over the top.

Over a hundred feet long and marks the present limit of free diving.

The trip was very much enjoyed by all present. The question that people will ask of course is, ‘Was it too much of a risk?’ You must judge for yourself. The trip was undertaken at the end of a long dry spell, which made Sump V a series of ducks. Two of the party were cave divers with cylinders and had all recent knowledge of the character of the sumps, which in the case of Sumps IV and V does not change. Pete had free dived two and three before, perhaps further, I’m not sure, and I had previously dived two. With the exception of Roger, who is quite recent to caving, we all had experience of long standing. We wore hoods, which add considerably to comfort and face masks which, although not essential, added confidence. It’s nice to be able to see where you are going! One tip I learned on this trip was to wear the cable flex of your lighting cell under the armpit and across the body to the helmet rather than over the back. If, as happened, your helmet is knocked off, it will not trail the full length of the cable behind you on passing through the sumps. If your helmet comes adrift when the cable flex is across your body, then it cannot easily float out of reach. Also, it is easier to free your cable if it snags on a projection when in front of your body than if it should do so when it is laid across your back. When free diving sumps, this is surely a piece of advice that could avoid a fatality.

Finally, all the sumps attempted with air can be done quite easily with either one or two breaths.

86 Our next article gives a new slant on a certain well known Mendip cave. The author also sent a copy to the Wessex Journal, who printed it recently. We think that it is appropriate to the time of the year with apologies to you-know-who.

The Great Cave of Chévre-Eglise … by N. Castanet

I recall, as a young schoolboy, hearing of tales of the great cave at Chévre-Eglise in the County of Somerset. How I longed to explore its secret mysteries and penetrate deep into the cavern which for so long had been constantly in my imagination.

At last, in 1959 with some young friends, we mounted our bicycles and headed out to the wild gorge wherein lies the yawning entrance to the great cave. After many hours of riding up long arduous hills, we arrived, tired but still cheerful at the entrance. We staggered up the winding slope weighed down with our load of boiler suits, acetylene lamps, ropes and other paraphernalia which speleologists habitually carry on these on these daring adventures.

After changing, we picked up our heavy equipment and entered the cave. What a sight met our eyes in the dim light, hardly aided by the flickering flames of our carbide lamps! It was necessary to make a short descent into a vast chamber which stretched away into the distance. This must indeed be the great cave of Chévre-Eglise we had heard of much about. We began the difficult and treacherous descent into this vast yawning cavity. I quickly tied a rope around me and picked my way carefully down the slippery steps, eventually arrived safely on the floor of the great chamber. By now we were running out of carbide and very exhausted, so new were forced to return to the open air; remount our faithful bicycles and pedal wearily back to Bristol.

My thoughts returned to the great cave, but it was two years later before in managed to organise another assault on this cave which for so long had remained an unattainable goal. Once more we found ourselves at the entrance to the cave, and made our way down to the great chamber, which had been the furthest point reached by our party on the previous venture. This time, we had brought extra supplies of carbide and water, so necessary to sustain our lights on an expedition such as this. We advanced into the great chamber and wondered ceaselessly when it would end. All the way down, we were puzzled by thin stalagmites of a deep red or black colour. This have since been examined by experts and shown to be iron handrails, no doubt of Iron Age origin when the cave was inhabited by our distant ancestors. The chamber gradually narrowed and finally came to a dead end. My colleagues were convinced that this was the end of the cave, and were inscribing their initials on the walls by means of their lamps, a characteristic of many cave explorers, when I noticed a small passage on our left just before the final choke. I squeezed into it and found myself in a steep rift. Pressing my back against one wall and my feet against the other, I gradually let myself down this great gulf, as one slip would have almost certainly proved fatal and in any case, it would have been impossible to get an injured man out of such a dangerous situation. After descending three or four metres, I decided that extra equipment would be needed, and began to climb back up the rift. The walls of the rift were of smooth flowstone and gave no hold. Eventually, after many hours, I rejoined my companions at the top of the rift and we slowly made our way out of the cave.

Once more, in 1965, I again descended this fearsome chasm, this time bringing more ropes. I once again descended the rift, this time with the aid of a rope, and my companions joined me at the bottom. We found ourselves in a dry narrow passage, our progress being impeded considerably by the fact that the passage, instead of being upright, was inclined at an angle, forcing us to lean against one wall nearly all the way.

After a while, the passage began to rise. We noticed a tight passage going down to the right in the floor, but it proved much too tight to enter, so we pushed on up the slope. At this point, the passage veered to the left (I believe it was left but below ground one so quickly loses all sense of direction that it may well have been right) and a shaft opened up on the right. I fastened a rope around me and went to the edge. What I saw filled me with horror. It was a shaft so steep and slippery that it would need another expedition to descend it.

We decided to continue up the sloping passage, and soon we were surprised to see the light of day from above. This must be the other side of the mountains! We climbed out, and after spending some hours looking for our bicycles, we set off once more for Bristol, happy in the knowledge that we had conquered at last the great cave of Chévre-Eglise

87

The B.B. in 1972

It has been felt for some time (ever since the editor realised it, to be accurate!) that the start of the second quarter century of the existence of the B.B. should be marked in some way or other. At the A.G.M., a couple of trial balloons were flown, to see how the club would react. This has enables us to forget about changing the B.B. to a quarterly, and to concentrate on the job of improving it as it stands.

Since this will be the last of the present style B.B.’s, it seems a good idea time to discuss the new one, to minimise any surprise which mat result in January.

Firstly, we are going metric. We should have to do this in any case. Other caving journals are also going metric – the Wessex Journal at the same time as the B.B. The only question is one of which of the metric sizes to adopt. To explain what we are up against here, it might be as well to run through the metric range – its good for a laugh if nothing else!

Why it is not something sensible like 20cm by 30cm is due to the morons who decide these things. It is traditional to start with a large sheet of paper (in our case, Large Post – 20” x 16”) and cut it in half if you want something smaller. Cutting it in half again give you quarto or 10” x 8”. Half again gives Octavo and so on. There is another large size of paper which, on being cut progressively in half, produces foolscap (13” x 8”) and at one time we used this for the B.B. and later used it folded to produce a page 8” x 6½”. This is roughly the size you would get by cutting Large Post in six, so it is called 6mo.

Now, the metric paper wallahs decided to base their standard on a piece of paper 1 metre square in area.

You couldn’t very well make this square, because if you did, the next size down would be long and thin, so you have to make it so that any halving produces paper of a reasonable rectangular shape. Systems based on ten do not lend themselves readily to successive division by two, and so the size of the basic A0 paper is 119.047cm by 84cm. Half this size is called A1 and is 84 x 59.523cm. Half this again is A2 and so on. This system gives A4 as already quoted about the same width as our present quarto and about halfway between the length of quarto and that of foolscap.

Now the B.B. started life as a number of foolscap sheets, but it was soon found that this size of paper was too unwieldy, and it was changed to quarto (as it is now). Later again, it was changed to half foolscap (or 6mo) but was changed back again for technical reasons not connected with the size, but with the fact that it was folded.

So it is necessary to choose between A4 and A5 – the first rather bigger than our present B.B., and the second smaller than the B.B. has ever been. After giving the matter much thought, and discussing the pros and cons of both sizes we have plumped for the smaller size. It makes a thicker looking magazine (the average issue should be at least 20 pages and we hope will be considerably more). It fits the pocket without bending or folding. It stands upright on a bookshelf and, last but not least, it saves paper and stencils by requiring smaller margins. The only real disadvantages would appear that the pages must be turned more often, thus straining the drinking arm, and that surveys etc. will tend to be rather small. This latter objection can be overcome partly by the better methods or reproduction afforded by the offset litho process, and occasionally by using the centre pages, which form a continuous sheet of A4 size.

Having dealt with the size, and mentioned the use of offset litho – which should give us a better looking printed page, you will no doubt be wondering if you are going to get your fair share in the way of amount of printed matter per anum. To this end, an analysis has been done of all B.B.’s during the 25 years just past.

Making allowances for changes in page size and type size used, and reducing all B.B.’s to a common factor (pages of quarto typed with this typeface or – in other words, what you are getting NOW) we find that the average number of pages per month has gradually risen from 2.7 in 1947 to a record of 14.1 in 1969. This year it runs at 12.3. Pages of the new size will come in multiples of 4, and we can compare as follows: PAGES OF NEW SIZE PER MONTH

4

8

12

16

20

24

28

PAGES OF THIS SIZE PER MONTH

2.5

5.1

7.6

10.2

12.7

15.2

17.8

…so you will be able to keep note of what you are getting next year, and moan if it’s not equal to your fair share!

88 Thus, at 12 new pages per month, you will be entitled to grumble – although we must point out that you would be getting as much as you got throughout the early 1960’s and more than you got in the 1950’s. At 16 pages per month you can still grumble – although it has only been in the last 4 years that you have had more.

At 20 pages per month, you have no real moan, although you might be disappointed – a s I shall be. At 24 pages per month, you will be getting more than you have ever had, and if you get an average of 28 pages per month – both you and I will be pleasantly surprised.

It remains now only to discuss the CONTENT of the B.B. Again, a complete analysis has been carried out, and we find that the content fluctuates very considerably. For this purpose, the content of the B.B. was divided into 8 categories. Club Business (including notices, reports of A.G.M.’s and club officers, Belfry matters, etc.). Caving, Climbing (including hill walking and foreign travel not connected with caving).

Informative (which includes all scientific articles, archaeology, technical matters like surveying practice, photography, care and construction of tackle etc.). Entertainment (including humour, puzzles, etc.). News of other organisations. Letters to the editor and finally Book reviews. It may be of great interest that the 1970 B.B. came closest to the general average, with about 35% club business, 24% caving, 16% entertainment, 15% climbing, 9% informative, and 1% odds and ends. The content of next year’s B.B. will be carefully watched and, if necessary, people will be specially asked to write on subjects that will keep the balance on a healthy side. In particular, the average of news of other organisations – at 1% - and letters to the editor – at 4% - are felt to be on the low side – as are book reviews at less than 1%. We shall try to keep these a bit higher.

So watch out for the new style in January. Let us know if there is anything you don’t lie (apart form the size – to which we are now committed) and it would be very nice if you even let us know about things you DO like. Editor’s, like other people, need encouragement from time to time!

“Alfie” _______________________________________________________________________________________ We have received a letter from our caving Sec. – Tim Large which, unfortunately, arrived just too late to be printed in this B.B. in its entirety. Tim suggests that during the coming year, club trips should be run by club members IN 1972 rather than by the Caving Sec. If you have a favourite caving trip – or a trip you have been wanting to do for ages, let Tim know about it. You fix the date, and Tim will arrange to give the trip publicity and do the organising of keys, permits etc. Tim’s slogan for next year is ‘MAKE YOUR TRIP A CLUB TRIP’. Tim also says that he now has the club’s key to RHINO RIFT and is waiting for the hard men to come forward to explore its depths (and write it up for the B.B. – Ed). He wishes all cavers a merry Christmas and good caving in the New Year. _______________________________________________________________________________________ CLUB CAVING TRIPS

NEW ADDRESSES AND ALTERATIONS TO MEMBERS ADDRESSES 4 Dine Grove, Bristol 7 R. Bidmead ‘Islay’, 98 Winsley Hill, Limpley Stoke, Nr. Bath, Somerset.

M. Bishop Was Miss E. Williamson E. Bishop 37 Wyatt Park Road, London SW2 T.A. Brooks 731 12 Clifton Terrace, Falmouth, Cornwall R. Cross 680 80 Wilton Gardens, Shirley, Southampton P. Eckford ‘Byways’, Hanham Lane, Paulton, Somerset C. Harvey 581 Rose Cottage, West End, Nailsea, Nr. Bristol R. Hobbs 11 Queensford, Calne, Wilts D. Jones 694 51 Swiss Road, Ashton Vale, Bristol 3 R. Sell 597 76 Rancliffe Gardens, Eltham, London SE9 A. Stone 723 8 Pavey Road, Hartcliffe, Bristol 3 R. Voke 654 Was Miss M. Thompson and is now at T. Large’s address M.Large _______________________________________________________________________________________ Make a note of JANUARY 31st. It is the day your 1972 subs are due. Why not give Bob a surprise.

89

A Day in Letterewe Foreszt

One of my climbing friends from Edinburgh had helped with my removal problem to this area, and decided to stay on for the weekend, so on the Sunday we decided to go climbing with Stewart – one of the original gillies. The original plan had been to climb Bat’s Gash, a nine hundred foot V. Diff. on Ben Lair crags (this is equal to a Welsh severe). We left the house at 8 am and trekked off up to the bealach. By 9 we were at the bealach (col) and saw that the crags were really clag-bound and the first drops of rain were coming on.

…by Steve Grime

We decided to do a walk down Fiann Loch to the base of Ben Airegh and then do a nice eleven hundred foot difficult. After four of the longest miles I know in Scotland, we arrived at the foot of the crag. By this time, bellies were beginning to rumble but as we had no food with us, we could only tighten our belts.

Five hundred feet of grass and rock led to the start of the climb and from there it began in earnest – or as earnest as a diff. can get. The rock dipped away from us and the holds were fine and positive. Cracks were few, and three runners were used over the full length of the climb. M.O.A.C.S. are the best bet in these hills but Clog Hex 4 or 5 do come in useful occasionally.

At halfway, the wind was strong and cold and at the end, the effect of six hours hard work on a plate of cornflakes was beginning to show as progress slowed. The situations were really fine and the views up the glen out of this world.

Finally, we debouched upon the summit and lay there in the sun watching alternately an eagle soaring on the thermals and turbulence coming off the ridge, and a herd of a score of deer slowly picking their way down the glen an thousand feet or more below us. Rock pipits pipped and a stone chat chatted while we dreamed of food.

Coiling the ropes, we started our downward journey over a carpet of moss covered with little saxifrage and mauve and white orchids. At about a thousand feet above sea level we put up a herd of feral goat with black shaggy coats and huge horns. Bob’s feet blistered and our progress slowed. We meandered down to the farm buildings where the Head Keeper was doing the milking, and treated ourselves to a pint of milk each straight from the cow. The sun was hot as Bob and I said cheerio to Stewart and set out on the last half mile to my house. We dawdled by the loch side as the bees hummed about the rhododendrons and the water lapped the shore. A bird warbled in the thicket, and we finally reached the house four hours behind schedule, as we were supposed to be taking the girls climbing in the afternoon. Fortunately, they were understanding, and the day ended peacefully. _______________________________________________________________________________________ NOTE THAT BELFRY KEYS ARE NOW AVAILABLE FROM DAVE IRWIN. ALSO NOTE THAT THERE WILL BE A PRACTICE RESCUE FROM CUTHBERT’S ON THE 15TH OF JANUARY. MEET AT THE BELFRY AT 11 AM. _______________________________________________________________________________________ Has any club member got ‘CAVES OF NORTH WEST CLARE’ from the club library? If so, could you return it as soon as possible. Any other outstanding books should also be returned so that we can do stocktaking on the library. _______________________________________________________________________________________ HELP WANTED Although we have made quite a few arrangements to ensure that we stand a better chance of keeping a bigger B.B. going next year, we could do with some help in writing the odd snippets on various subjects.

Three of which come to mind are; 1. Book Reviews; 2. Items from the Journals of the other clubs; and 3.

Brief write-ups of social and other events. If any members have any ambitions to become a journalist for the B.B., please contact Alfie, who would also be pleased to hear about any other suggestions from members designed to make the B.B. bigger, better, more interesting etc. next year.

90

The Weegee goes West

I parked the car at the end of the track and got out. Some track. It was, more like a ploughed up field. Still, I thought, all the better. Nobody else would drive over that lot for fear of wrecking their suspension. Mine – well, I was worried. It was a wreck anyway. Five quid to get it through its last M.O.T. Great. I had the whole place to myself. Stuff Snowdonia. Too many day trippers this was it.

Solitude.

I scanned this valley. Some place. Inspiring. The sides of it swept up to the blue sky with rock jutting out in all directions and slopes of scree where it was all directions and slopes of scree where it was all coming apart and falling back down. The floor of the valley was wide and green, different from the brown grass higher up, with a stream, and walls built of slate slabs standing on end. There were some sheep, little white dots, high up and far away. They must be lost. The place was so quiet that you could hear them baaing. And it was hot. Man, it was the height of summer.

I hefted my rucksack onto my back. One of these foamed jobs from Millets. Genuine mountaineering gear. Checked my wallet in the old hip pocket; locked up the banger, and set off. Two hundred quid I had in that wallet and I’d grafted every penny of it on overtime so I wasn’t about to leave it in the glove compartment where some thief could get at it.

Half a mile with that pack on my back and I was soaked with sweat and gasping. So O.K., it was good for me. That sun. That heat. That clean, fresh air. It was what I was here for. You’ve got to have contrast.

Be able to get away from it all. Like last night it was sitting stuck in a London traffic jam with stinking engines belching into the lit-up rain lashing at thousands of milling wet people all rushing around without the time of day to exchange a how’s your old man – never mind to take the trouble to wipe sour looks off their miserable faces.

Man. This place was really living. Invigorating. That was the word. Rejuvenating. A week of relaxing in this valley, and I’d be fit and sunburned, ready to book into Butlin’s for the second part of the holiday. A seven day session. The birds! I had it all planned. I drained a can of beer and chucked the tin over my shoulder. The place could do with a hint of civilisation. It was too barren.

I put my foot down and got going. I reckon two miles into that valley and I was just about knackered.

The end of it started sloping up to meet the sides, and it was all climbing and clambering over rock and sliding stones mixed up with fine gravel. Here and there, a different kind of rock lat scattered about. Quartz, by the look of it. Reflecting the sunlight so that it was dazzling white and hard of the eyes. Yes, I would say quartz. Definitely.

About halfway up, just as my appreciation was beginning to crack, I came to a natural platform. A kind of heaven amongst the litter of boulders. It was flat as a board and turfed over with short green grass, with half buried squared stones sticking out of it like the remains of a wall. The sheep had been at the grass and had cropped it close to the earth so that it was dry and warm to the touch.

I pitched the tent and got the grub cooked. It was like manna from heaven out there in the open. Real tasty. This was what I called really getting away from the rat race. That canteen cooking back there in the smoke could get you nothing but ulcers. Imagine it!” Eighth hours a day in a stinking workshop and the only break you get is a load of mashed up junk they lash up and chuck at you on a dirty plate. I put the water on the primus for the coffee and lay back, contented, to wait for it to boil.

You ever had a fright? I men a real fright. One moment, it’s all on your side and you can’t go wrong, and the next your nerves are leaping around you inside you screaming to get out and run. That kind of fright.

Well, there I was with a whole valley laid out to view like an aerial painting below me, up here on my own, perched on my ledge – and I look up and in the next second see this weirdo squatting in a niche above the platform staring at me and I knew he’d been there all the time watching me.

That kind of thing is enough to paralyse anybody no matter how hard they want to scarper out of it. The only think you can think about at the time like that is to wish you weren’t there.

91 “Enjoy the gifts of nature is it that you are?” This weirdo shouts at me, and jumps out of his niche. A real apparition he was, hanging in ragged cast-offs with a grey beard tangled around his face and the hair on his head hanging out like an old brush from under the remains of a hat with the brim all sagging round his eyes and ears. Fierce too. Fill of strut and bounce. I’ve seen some weirdoes draped around Hyde Park, but this one was different – a right Welsh mountain nutter, and no mistake.

A staggered to my feet and backed away from him to put a bit of distance between us. “Alone is what you are, then?” he said, peering about as if he didn’t know damn well I was. “I like the tent, boyo” says he, fingering the material. “Made of fine silk there is could it be man? Very pretty to be sure in all its beautiful red colour and white strings. And light and airy enough to fly away like a kite on a puff of breeze. I should think so, wouldn’t you agree?”

“No!” I croaked. “It’s made of nylon. It’s a mountain tent. Got an ‘A’ frame and a flysheet and a sewnin ground sheet. It’ll stand up to any storm short of a hurricane.” He sniffed suspiciously around the tent as he had never heard of nylon. “Strange it is then, and here you are in your flimsy tent on the very spot where the house once stood that is gone now that sheltered me when I was a young bach, and living in my old age out on the bare mountain!” He squatted down on the turf like a run down gramophone and squinted at me out of the corner of his eye. “Is it not?”

“You lived her as a boy?” He nodded his hairy face. “And I’ll die here too, when my time comes. The last of the family, with nobody to inherit.” He pointed across the left side of the valley. “Buried over there we are, in the chapel besides the farm.”

I noticed that the water was boiling, so I got busy and made the coffee. I couldn’t see any farm and now that I got a closer look at him I reckoned the poor old sod was already half dead. He’d probably been stuck up on the mountain all summer living on bracken roots. “Here!” I said, offering him some coffee. “It’ll warm you up a bit.”

“Coffee then, is it now?” said he, impressed. “And in a splendid china mug too, as well. Let’s spark it up a bit and put a drop of life into it!” and he produced a bottle of whiskey out of his coat lining. Not content with this, he fumbles around and finds a couple of cigars – one each – still in their containers, brand new and lights up with a snazzy gas powered lighter.

“Of course you know, boyo,” says he, breathing out the scented smoke and waxing eloquent on the life giving whiskey, “the valley will still be there when I’m gone, and you too, for that matter.” I suppose it will, thinks I, you crafty old git, and so will the village store where you nicked your loot. Whiskey and cigars, indeed! And I couldn’t help smirking at him.

“Ah yes boyo,” he declaims in his Welsh singsong, evidently taking my smirk for an understanding smile.

“Look you now, I own this place. Been in the family for centuries, as far as you can see.” He waved his arm around, the tattered sleeve slapping around the skinny wrist, and pointed at the surrounding rubble. “Look you now, there is good firm stone provided by nature for the taking to build houses to live in, and coal from the seam over yonder to warm us with fire.”

I interrupted hum. “Here, have some more coffee!” Trust me to get lumbered with some raving and drunk hermit in the middle of nowhere. It was about time to pack up the tent and clear off before the old fool decided to stay the night. He pulled the whiskey bottle out again. Something else came out of the lining with it and dropped on the grass. A battered old wedding ring. One of those old fashioned thick ones bent and flattened into a practically unrecognisable lump of metal. I picked it up and handed it to him. “Your ring. You dropped it!” He clutched it with his bony fingers and looked at me real suspicious like. “Where did you find that, boyo?” “Off the deck. You dropped it out of your pocket. It’s your wedding ring.”

That got through to him all right. He cackled like a turkey with hysterics. If he’d had any blood inside him he’d have blown an artery. “Me wedding ring!” he spluttered, “Look!” and he pulled another handful of lumpy stuff out of his coat. “I could make a hundred wedding rings if you could show me a hundred wenches willing to wear them for me.” And goes off into hysterics again as if he’d made some kind of joke.

92 Suddenly I got very interested. Either the stuff was for real, or it was the rubbish – pyrites. That was it!

The crazy old fool was roaming around up here, grubbing it out of the ground not knowing what it was. He could be a millionaire for all he knew. “You mean nobody would want the rings because it is fool’s gold?” I asked him, when he’d finally quietened down. He jiggled the lumps around like dice in his fist and then dropped them on the turf in a little heap, and gave me a real sharp look that I didn’t like much. His eyes were a bit too deep. Sort of piercing.

“It could well be so,” he said in a low mutter. “Fool’s gold. Very clever is the gentleman. Gold for the fools who come up here into the valley to make trouble for us.” I let him ramble on. I was too busy thinking to listen. How what was it? There was a test for gold. I’d read about it somewhere. I racked my brains. A quick test. That was it! Rub the gold on a piece of glazed china and it will leave a trace. China! My mud was china! I picked up a lump like a battered wedding rind and rubbed it on the china mug. It left a mark.

A streak of gold across the white surface,. Christ! It was real gold! What had the old idiot been yapping about? Trouble, or something. I had to keep him talking.

“Trouble dad?” I said gently, “Who’s been giving you trouble?” he looked at me carefully. “Can I trust you, boyo?” “Of course you can trust me dad. Who was it?”

“Oh well now, we’ve had our troubles over the years what with one thing and another. There was my father, God rest him, who broke his neck up there on the scree when he was rounding up his sheep. The there was…” “Yes, old man. But who did you give this gold to?” He looked at me again. Sharpish. “Who were the fools?” I said.

He spat contemptuously. “The dam builder! He was the last one that I saw up here. Sent buy the government to build a dam and flood the valley! He gave me four hundred pounds and I gave him some gold. That was our bargain. That was the last I saw of him, and nobody’s been near the place since. Except you. But you’re not a fool, are you? Not from the government, are you?”

“Listen dad. How much gold did you give him? For four hundred pounds, I mean?” It was incredible. I just sat there and couldn’t believe it. And I was so scared it made my teeth chatter. “Wait now and I’ll show you!” He went off, and came back with a ragged bundle and it must have weighed a ton by the way he was carrying it. He dumped it at my feet. “That much!” he panted.

I couldn’t even look at the stuff. I felt like I’d come upon Littlewoods and I was just waiting for the cheque to arrive. Christ! No wonder the dam builder never came back. He’d probably sent in a negative report and then quietly faded to the Bahamas! “Listen carefully, old man. I will give you two hundred pounds.” I took out my wallet and waved a bunch of notes at him, “for half that gold and I will come back and buy some more from you with more money until we both have enough to build you a new farm fit for a king, and stock this valley with prime beef and best quality merino sheep. Is it a deal?”

He looked at me with tears in his eyes. “Boyo, bach, I liked the look of you when I saw you climbing up the valley. And when you pitched your find tent on this ground where the old house stood, it made my hearts sing a welcome. Go get the money. Build us a farm. I want to finish my days on this earth in comfort. Go and get the money, boyo!” He took the two hundred quid, and I let him have it. What had I to lose? Two hundred, chicken feed!

But he must have been a wiry old bird. Half that gold was about all I could lift when I got my rucksack on my back. I left the tent where it was, and all the rest of the gear. What did I want with a tent? I was on my way to join the dam builder! It nearly killed me, but I practically ran all the way back to the car. The old fool! Why, I’d buy a four wheel drive land rover and ship the stuff out of the valley by the ton!

Down at the Llandrindidnod assay office, where they check the gold from the small mines, the chemist or clerk, or whatever he was, wouldn’t commit himself until he’d assayed the lot. Then he handed me a sheet of paper with his report written on it. “What’s this lot mean then?” I snapped, irritated to hell with his civil service and all the delay.

“It means,” he said, “that you’re the fifth gentleman to come up he in the past two years with a story about digging up gold. You are wealthy to the tune of five pounds, which will just about cover my fee. The

93 assay reveals ninety nine percent of iron pyrites and one nugget of eight carat gold. What’s that you say?

Had you fooled, did it? Paid a lot of money for it, did you now? Better go and see the police, boyo, although, mind you, they won’t like you for digging without a prospector’s licence.”

“Who owns the valley, can you tell me?” I croaked. “What valley, boyo? Here show me on the map.” I pointed to it. “Why, nobody owns it,” he said. “It’s National Trust, you can see that on the map, look you!”

I’d torn the big ends out of the car getting that junk out of the valley, so I had to hitch back to the smoke.

I went back to work, which was O.K. because the firm was on staggered holidays. Well, what else could I do? But next summer, I’ll track that old devil to his lair up in the hills and knock his block off.

“Jok Orr” _______________________________________________________________________________________

PANT MAWR POTHOLE …by Graham Wilton-Jones

We arrived at Penwyllt prepared for a photographic trip into O.F.D. However, the day was warm and the sky cloudless. These conditions prevailed for weeks, and the moor top peat was dusty dry.

We decided to take the opportunity for visit Pant Mawr Poy, which is about three miles from Penwyllt and tow miles from Cwm Pwll-yRhydd. Since the latter route starts with a steep climb from the Nedd Fechan, we took the easier, though longer route.

It is easy for follow the old quarry railway track up a gentle slope past O.F.D. Column Hall area, past several limestone quarries and up the Byfre valley to the sandstone quarries around Pwll Byrfre. The sink here is not spectacular, the water from this stream sinking at several points in mud and boulders.

Undoubtedly this section of O.F.D. is solidly blocked with washed out moraine.

By following the east-west wall above Pwll Byfre we eventually arrived, hot and thirsty, at a particular high point on Pant Pawr from which the view was magnificent. The whole of the lower, northern side of the moor is covered in holes, many of them quite large, and some in very obvious rows. Clearly, there is much to be found here for someone who doesn’t mind plenty of walking and, perhaps, plenty of digging. None of the hollows are obviously stream sinks.

To the north of the wall, there is one large and obvious sink. Pant Mawr Pothole is less than a hundred yards south of this, but was easy to find in the clear weather as the fence posts around the pot appear white against the heather.

We left the path, and headed straight for the pothole through the thick heather, which was buzzing with bees and small insects and alive with little spiders. Ravens were roving the skies above while grouse lurked around the damp peaty hollows. However, the sound of cool fresh water at the bottom of the pothole lured us below.

The top half of the pot is roughly conical with a very steep southern side and a slightly less steep northern side, dropping down thirty feet or forty feet to a ledge. From this ledge, there is a sheer drop of fifty five feet.

Using handline and lifeline, we dropped down to the ledge and inserted two rawlbolts. On unrolling the ladder, we realised that we had only forty five feet. However, we set up tackle and I descended first, being very dehydrated by now. The ladder was ten feet short – I wondered what cavers do when they use the recommended fifty foot ladder? Fortunately, at thirty five feet there is a wide ledge. By swinging on the ladder I got a foot on the ledge and a hand into a vertical crack. Once on the ledge, I found an easy climb down to the floor of the pot. A thirty fife foot ladder would be sufficient, with a ten foot length of cord at the bottom to tie the ladder to the ledge. Ever tried jumping onto a ladder which is hanging five feet away in space?

We took a look at the upstream series first. The water comes through a narrow rift which has some superb shelving – unusual in Wales. Beyond this is a waterfall in a side aven but the passage goes on a little way as a rift. This can be climbed to a bedding plane. In turn, this leads to the top of the waterfall in one direction and away below the moor, close to the surface in the other.

94 Downstream, the passage is large and is possible to walk for most of the way. There are roof falls and consequent boulder chokes in a few places. One fall is a direct result of limestone breaking off the overlying shale bed. Here, the roof is visibly bowed towards the centre and further falls are imminent! Another fall has been caused by phreatic tubes spreading into a bedding plane development a feet or so above the existing roof. Again, there is a danger of further collapse, although this is not so acute here.

Climbing over one of these boulder chokes, we passed through a long but low chamber, well decorated with straws and small stalactites. From this point onwards, the stream passage, which forms most of the cave, is well decorated with stal, though much of this is rather muddy. This is not the fault of cavers but is due to frequent and extensive sumping.

From the boulder choke downwards, the cave is liable to severe flooding and though it appeared to be safe in certain places, it would not be wise to rely on these. A soft, black, organic mud clings to the roof and walls in many places as a warning.

There are some large chambers off to the west of the main stream passage, but we did not visit these.

Although they constitute an important section of the cave geomorphologically – considering the past connection with O.F.D., they are not a large percentage of the total passage length. Instead, we continued down to the fire hydrant where a torrent of water, as much as the main stream, issues from an impenetrable fissure in the low roof at the west side of the main passage. From about thirty feet back up the passage, from a hole up in the west wall, a stream could be heard. We persuaded Bert to enter the hole and have a look, and forced him literally upwards and inwards. After a quarter of an hour, there was still no sign of him, so Buckett climbed up and disappeared after him. For three quarters of an hour I pottered about while Bert and Bucket followed a narrow stream passage trending northwards. They did not reach the end, as time, energy and enthusiasm wore out. There were a number of cross rifts, some un-entered. Surprisingly, there is no surface stream of catchment area that could give rise to such a large stream, so its source remains a mystery.

The extraction of the pair of explorers back into the main passage was most amusing as they both returned head first. It should be mentioned that the hole through which they had to emerge was squeeze size and almost eight feet pup a sheer wall. The rest can be imagined!

From here, we continued downstream. The passage rapidly became narrower and lower with a gravel floor. Eventually it degenerates into a crawl and, with the sump not far off, we decided to return. The journey back to the surface took less that half an hour. The total time underground was three and a half hours. If anyone wishes to visit Pant Mawr Pot, you need a letter of permission to walk over the moor, so it is wise to write in advance. _______________________________________________________________________________________

The Five Caves Show

In southern France is the Auvergne, a region of outstanding natural beauty.

It divides naturally into the gorges of the Tarn, the Cevennes and the Bas Languedoc. It is three hours journey north east of Toulouse.

This vast limestone area or causse is cut out by rivers into long deep gorges.

It is a region of caves, large well decorated grottoes, appreciated and commercialised by natives. They have energetically tunnelled into them most spectacularly to make them show caves which are, in some cases, even provided with railways. Martel, the great name in the region, opened up the causses to Ann and Kangy King – tourists by his explorations and writings. His achievements, even by today’s August 1970. standards are impressive and at the time (1880’s) were incredible.

Signs on all the roads show the way to the five listed caves. This and the Green Michelin Guide, makes finding them easy. The guide has also contributed substantially to this article!

DARGILAN has a spectacular situation high on the side of the Joute Gorge. It was found in the eighteenth century but such is the wild and remote nature of the country that it was forgotten and not rediscovered until 1880 by a shepherd. He spoke about it to someone and eventually Martel explored it (the known cave) in 1888, taking four days to do it and nearly losing one of the team in a twenty foot fall. Soon after, ladders were put in and the cave opened to visitors. Electric light was laid on in 1910.

95 The decorated part starts directly at the entrance, and is a big hall with plenty of columns. The hall is 460 feet long by 130 feet wide and over a hundred feet high. From here there is a natural shaft, now equipped with concrete stairs, which leads to the lower passages and chambers. These contain notably, a wall of red, brown, yellow and white drapery 330 feet long by 130 feet high; a lake, and finally one crowning glory of “Le Clocher” – a really superb formation over sixty feet high. This terminates the cave and the passages are retraced to the entrance. A cavey sort of trip.

AVEN ARMAND is billed as the start of the region, and may be imagined in form as a monster Pen Park Hole or Lamb Leer, with a hundred foot sloping tunnel equipped with an electric funicular railway and a loud speaker urgently crackling that the next tour start in two minutes each fifteen minutes. Martel had been poking into holes with the assistance of Louis Armand, the blacksmith of Rozier. On the 18th September, 1887, Armand came back from the causse very excited and told Martel that he had come across an enormous hole with great possibilities. The next day, Martel, Armand and Vire took their ladders to the hole with the aid of local men.

Armand went down and at the bottom of a 250 foot pitch found incredible formations. Martel and Vire went down the day after. The cave was opened after some difficulty in 1927.

Concrete staircases everywhere in conjunction with the railway make the visit very easy. The first view of the vast chamber is from the balcony, where the three hundred by two hundred by a hundred and fifteen foot high hall makes a great impression. Conducted by uniformed guides, the tour continues down the steps and through great plantations of amazingly shaped stalagmites, the whole dwarfed by the great high roof.

After the organised order of the Aven Armand tour, the less glittering BRAMABIAU is presented like a very poor relation. No big car park, no loudspeaker announcements. Just a good looking girl in a wooden shed to give you tickets, and her small brother to tear them in half and take you round. Relatively speaking, it is hard trip with half an hour walk on a steep muddy path before reaching the resurgence. This is an underground ‘river’ type of show cave, with no formations but beautifully situated in a deeply cut gorge with the river emerging as a waterfall. An evocative print in the Michelin Guide shows Martel and his mates tugging a wooden boat up a waterfall. He made the first traverse from resurgence to sink on the 27th and 28th June 1888. This was a distance of 2,200 feet. Later explorations revealed about six miles of passages.

Regrettably, the tourist trip hardly leaves the daylight. However, it is still worthwhile to visit if only to enjoy the effect of contre-jour on the way back, and exploring the gorge, both top and bottom.

Martel is also associated with the GROTTE DES DEMOISELLES, discovered in 1770 and explored by him in 1884. It is of a similar type to Aven Armand, except that the entrance tunnel that was blasted for the railway slopes upwards.

The Grotte des Demoiselles is remarkable for its lack of visible rock – all is absolutely covered in stal flow. The trip is presented nicely too. There is a preliminary tour of interesting and well decorated passages and chambers, and then suddenly the huge central chamber is seen at the head of a zig-zagging stair which leads into the beautiful detail of the main hall. Sentimentally, its name comes from a particularly large virgin and child shaped stalagmite which holds pride of place. Everywhere glitters with particularly well lighted formations and the final passages are no exception.

CLAMOUSE completes the five. As Martel died in 1938 at the age of 79, he missed this one which was entered during an exceptional drought by its sump in 1945. Tunnelling to avoid this sump was completed and the cave opened to visitors in 1964.

The route through the cave and the lighting has been very well done. The whole cave is beautifully coloured and glistens with life. Time after time, corners are turned to reveal magnificent views of cave scenery, well decorated in general and intricate detail. The ceilings are particularly fine with long straws and erratics in great profusions.

Of all the five caves, this was the most intelligently treated. Commercialisation, with its ability to provided powerful lighting has brought out the beauties which are normally hidden from the cavers lamp.

No rather vulgar coloured lights, as are used in Aven Armand, are to be found here- simply plenty of white lighting well placed. This may be one of the most satisfying show caves for the caver that there is.

96

MONTHLY CROSSWORD – Number 17.

Across: 1

2

3

5

6

4

5. Bit eel cut in Cuthbert’s. (9) 6. How’s that for a commercial cave. (4) 7. Found in crystalline deposit. (4) 8. Direction in which we stagger after Hunters?.

(4) 10. Passage wall. (4) 11. Rustled G.G.? Caved hard in any case. (9)

7

Down:

8

9

10

1. Local parish is without it but we have it. (9) 2. Loud and deep indication of stream. (4) 3. What goes on these sounds plain to us. (4) 4. Keeps feet dry in wet rift passage? (9) 9. Nonmagnetic bearing? (4) 10. Keeps his pot on the Hunter’s? (4)

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