Contents
Editorial
Erratic Publications Dept.
At this time of year the spasmodic appearance of the B.B. is
thrown further out of gear by the holiday season. Thus, members who obtain their copy of this
illustrious journal by post will not receive this one much before July. Gradually, it is hoped, we shall get back to
publishing the B.B. somewhat nearer the beginning of the month. Until then, we must ask members to be
patient.
Silver Jubilee Number
Comments on this number were mainly favourable except from
Bob Bagshaw on being told the cost of the special cover! We have another article in reminiscent vein
this month.
Copyright.
It seems we dropped a clang the other month. Or legal advisor (Dennis Kemp) sent us a
postcard appropriately enough a picture of the Old Bailey on the front, and
pointed out that the copyright of an article rests in any case with the author
and exists automatically. It does not
have to be claimed and it cannot be given away. If this is so, it would seem that the practice of claiming copyright by
caving journals was in any case, unnecessary. However, we mustnt get ourselves involved in any further arguments on
this point.
Alfie
Lady Chatterbox
Gaffy Fowler, at present serving in the R.A.F. as an officer
called at 10a to say Howdo! on Saturday the 21st May and informed your
correspondent with a great show of teeth that he GOT MARRIED AT EASTER! He appears to have the ideal set-up. He is away, so his bride lives with her mum
and with him at weekends. I bet she
holds the record for the most Gone back to mum bride of the lot. I duly tackled him about the provision of a
barrel or two and was told there would be one in July or August. He is going to be a Hunter Pilot (aircraft,
not pub) in September. Someone should
ask the Air Ministry if they really want window boxes as standard G.A.F.
equipment, or bent front forks that is, assuming that Hunters have front
forks.
Sidobbs is still courting. A boozy do was held recently in the Mossman residence (described some
time ago by the same authoress in her Stately Homes of Clifton Ed.) Some members of the B.E.C. discovered the
Hula Hoop he keeps there. A more erratic
display of wriggling has never before seen in public. One member turned up with a bottle of rum,
and was last seen propping up the wall in the all moaning about falling in luv
again and singing some song about a machine, nuff said.
Pine Tree Pot
The Mendip Cave Group, at their recent and most successful
Hut Re-warming Party, announced the discovery of a new cave at
Charterhouse. This is provisionally
known as Pine Tree Pot, and contains a fine grotto and a thirty five foot
pitch. Access is not possible yet, but
we will keep you in touch.
Personal
Somewhat belated congratulations to MIKE and JUDY on the
birth of their son. Sorry we have no
further details.
Fings Aint Wot They Used To Be
By Norman Brooks
Many years ago, in my first days of caving, I paid a visit
to the Hunters Lodge. There I encountered
a group who were about the most outstanding loud singing and hard drinking mob
of characters I had ever met. They were,
I was informed, the B.E.C. and they even had their own private room at the pub. Later, some friends of mine were actually allowed
to visit a hut about a quarter of a mile from the Hunters. They came back with truly fabulous tales,
saying that the place was called the Belfry and that it was where the B.E.C.
lived.
Such a club was not for a mere nobody like myself, but
perhaps if I caved diligently and listened hard at the Hunters, I too might
attain the standard required to consider the possibility of being allowed to
join the elite.
In due course, I managed not only to achieve my ambition,
but gained the still greater honour of being placed on the Belfry Regulars
list for two years running. My visits
are rather infrequent nowadays but it was with hope expectation, based upon
memories of the past that I returned at Easter. After all, it was on an Easter Saturday a few years ago that a census
was taken in the cavers room at the hunters showed that no less than 66 people
were present and all having a whale of a time. Yes, Easter would certainly be the right time of the year to return to the
B.E.C.
As I entered the Belfry, I noticed that there were not many
there. This was not too upsetting, as I
had heard that things were going from strength to strength. The only obvious explanation for the extreme
youth of the youngest occupant was that membership of the B.E.C. was getting so
tight, like many famous public schools, you have to have your name down from
birth. Presumably, the baby had been
brought out to be viewed by the Committee with a view to accepting it for
future membership. Later on, I observed
several changes in practice which I found to be truly puzzling. Firstly, the wearing of ties hand the
appearance of creases in trousers. One
used to require a good excuse, such as the Annual Dinner, before such a lapse
from correct dress would be permitted. Was the Annual Dinner now at Easter or terrible thought was this the
done thing today?
Secondly, the sparse attendance at the Hunters and the
invasion of the singing room by shoe halfpenny playing foreigners on the
Saturday evening shook me up. This
really was disconcerting.
Sett being absent, the Hut Wardens duties were performed by
a deputy who used an ingenious system of remote control and deputy-deputy. In spite of this, I do not think the
Committee should take too seriously the suggestion that a closed circuit television
system should be installed between the Belfry and the Shepton hut as an aid to
good Hut Wardening.
Another thing I found odd was the increase in overnight
fees. It used to be 1/2d, including 2d
for milk. It is now 1/6d with the 6d, I
am told, for water. Since water is
cheaper than milk this little example of the mysterious workings of the laws of
economics is absolutely beyond my comprehension. Beer is even dearer than milk, so if the taps
ran beer would it be possible for the overnight fees to be reduced? I urge the Committee to give their most
serious consideration to this matter.
One occurrence that never would have happened when I was a
regular was that one day absolutely everybody went caving. This was quite a record and shows that not
all changes are on the debit side.
Maybe the reason for everything being different last Easter
was that the members deliberately organised it that way. The club has always seemed to function by a
method of opposites. If you took a keen
caving type of visitor for a weekend, nobody would go caving but instead would
go drinking or be taking it easy after drinking, the visitor would be
disgusted.
If, on the other hand, you brought along a keen drinking
visitor, then everyone would be caving and he would be dis-enheartened. The type who was a keen caver as well as a
keen drinker would probably find that everyone else was intent on some
abstruse, highly technical discussion. If you tried to be really clever and took along a
scientific-caver-drinking-type then the club would be holding a regatta on the
Mineries. You just couldnt win.
Editors
Note. It would seem, from
whatever failings we might have as either a caving or a drinking club our
Lifemanship remains superb!
Rob Roys Cave
We welcome a new contributor to
our ranks, JUG Jones. Until we received
this, we were unaware of his ability to write. It would be interesting to know where he was when he wrote it!
After many unsuccessful attempts (about five in all) my new
found potholing mate an I managed to hire a car, and set out on a brilliant
summers day last August to explore the little written of Rob Roys Cave. The cave is marked on the Esso map of
Southern Scotland; the British Railways map of Loch Lomond and of course the
O.S. map of
known about it.
As you probably know,
is definitely Rob Roy country. Slightly
to the north of
actually on the lake itself is the original prison where our hero was
imprisoned many years ago by the Blooming British.
We left South Queenferryside on the 22nd August, passing
through
and
Bearsden; Milngaine; Strathblone and Aberfoyle at the foot of the
Trossachs. We turned the car left there
and cruised slowly along a secondary road towards Inversnaid.
What a truly majestic sight awaited us along this road. With Loch Ard on our left, the waves almost
washing against the car wheels, while over to the right and ahead of us
appeared the mighty Trossachs towering to a few thousand feet and standing
out blunt and rugged in the August sunlight. One could easily imagine the redcoats soaked in perspiration, wearily
searching for the ever elusive Rob Roy. What a hell of a difficult job confronted those very patient
soldiers. Slowly but surely beating the
mountainside, searching in the gorse, heather and rocks, trying desperately to
find the Scottish hero. Then perhaps in
the harsh winter months methodically retracing their steps, in a vain effort to
catch sight of Rob Roys tracks in the snow.
must have seemed to them a very strange and tough country.
We reached Kinlochard (a tiny hamlet of perhaps three
houses) and then Inversnaid. The car was
dumped in front of the jetty there directly in front of the hotels impressive
entrance. Then we checked our lights;
maps; ropes etc and when everything seemed satisfactory, borrowed a ten foot
dinghy and pulled out towards the area where we believed the cave lay.
After pulling steadily for half a mile or so, we saw over on
our starboard bow an old and rusting landing craft. This was no doubt left behind by the troops
after the last war, as many of the lochs were used as training areas for
invasions etc. Anyway, it served as a
good landmark.
Half a mile further north we passed the headland. At this point I spotted, high on the
mountainside, the word CAVE daubed in faded white paint. A knobbled old tree seemed a suitable spot to
land, so we pulled ashore and secured the dinghy (Quote)
You make fast
Ill make fast
Make fast the dinghy!
After scrambling up the mountainside for about forty feet,
we came to the writing that I have just mentioned. In a direct line with this was the main
entrance. This was about twelve feet
high and about six feet wide. Below this
and to the left (north) was a second entrance. This was somewhat smaller but entrance to it was quite easy. Above and below these two entrances were one
or two more, but these were mere crevasses in the rock.
Mike decided to stay outside the cave and raise the alarm if
I wasnt back within the hour. I
selected the main entrance and after climbing over a few boulders I managed to
find a reasonable path to follow. Alas,
after some forty feet of fairly easy going it came to be impossible to go
further, owing to what seemed a fairly old roof fall.
The second entrance proved to join up with the main one
after quite an assortment of weird crawls and crevices, and whilst squirming
down one of these, I was horrified to see a HUGE BLACK SPIDER. My head automatically snapped back in order
to avoid this veil looking insect, where upon I saw a further huge black
spider; then another, then more. For a
split second I was petrified, yet they held a strange kind of fascination for
me. I looked closer (three pints of bass
said I could). Their bodies were the
size of a sixpenny piece and like jet black marbles. I touch one of them with my lamp. It swung round and faced me, then raced up
the wall and across the low roof towards my face. In this confined space it seemed HUGE and
bent on revenge. I eased quickly back
and as I did so, disturbed more of those evil black MONSTERS.
Shaking all over like a pop singer, I fled from this
section of the cave in half the time it takes the ink making industry to go on
strike.
Along another passage of the cave, I came across a faded
name and the date 1937. I wondered how
long it had been since anyone else had come face to face with what I had
affectionately named Rob Roys Spider (or in the Latin phrase Draughtus
Basserius Spideria).
Whilst following another passage, I saw that a whole section
of the wall appeared to be composed of mica. I broke off a few pieces, hoping somebody more learned than I could
verify this. I was also hoping to find
some evidence of this cave having been used as a dwelling place at one
time. Perhaps a niche in the wall for
holding a candle driven lantern, or some signs of a charcoal hearth, bit I
suppose this would be just as dramatic as finding Rob Roys original dirk,
since the cave must have been dug by archaeologists, historians, locals,
students and even American tourists.
It was getting late, and Mick was shouting for my
return. My accumulator was fading (I
think one of the cells leaks) and I couldnt find the way out. All the likely ways appeared difficult. I tried to pull myself up a rock face using a
clean arms pull but alas, the weakened armed Jug collapsed and fell back down
again. Then I saw a small ledge. I managed to reach this by simple finger and
toe grips and soon I was almost out. I
had reached an entrance and poked my head through. Getting the huge bonce through was only part
of the procedure. I had to perfect a
half roll to get my bony shoulders through. Then I gave Mick a call for assistance. We pushed and shoved until I fell free.
I fell feely on top of Mick, who fell back down a ten foot
ledge, nearly breaking his leg. In the
truest tradition of the Silent Service, he screamed back up at me, You
clumsy, clumsy, clumsy awkward b—–, Jug!
We then left the cave (Mick bemoaning over meeting me) with
all the nits, gnats, midges, bugs and every conceivable kind of wandering
biting lice in Scotland and after pulling hard for about ten minutes, this army
of insects fell back in smart formation, leaving us itching all over.
On the way back, with an acute shortage of cats eyes and far
too many trees growing far too close to the road, my mind began to relax. Then SMACK (it cant have happened to
me!). The window disappeared, the door
caved in and I could feel blood running down my neck. We groped our way out of the wreckage and
finally rejoined our ship six hours adrift.
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The following appeals appeared on the Belfry blackboard a
few weeks ago. We thought they were
worth reproducing in the B.B.
Owing to the loss of one black
kitbag (marked G. Salt) I have been forced to borrow a white kitbag (R.A.F.)
which will be returned via Anthony Mr. OFlaherty.
G. Salt
Owing to the loss of one white kitbag
(R.A.F.) I have been forced to borrow a light brown hessian type sack (marked
Northern Ireland Whites). This will be
not returned to Mr. Salt.
A. Fincham
Owing to the loss of one light
brown hessian type sack (marked Northern Ireland Whites) I have been forced to
borrow a black kitbag which I intend keeping.
R.A. Setterington.
*****************************************
Secretary, R.J. Bagshaw,
Editor, S.J. Collins, 33
8.