Hon. Sec: A.R. Thomas. Allens House, Townsend, Priddy,
Wells,
Hon. Editor: – S.J. Collins, Lavender Cottage, Bishop Sutton,
Contents
Editorial
Staying Power
The annual preparation of the list of members names and
addresses which is part of the November B.B. is a task which generates a certain
amount of regret for the absence of more and more well-known names with each
succeeding year.
Since the B.E.C. has been in existence for a large number of
years now, and well over seven hundred people have, at one time or another,
been club members, to do a bit of analysis on the figures and to see what came
out.
In fact, over the last thirty years, the figures show a very
good degree of consistency. Thus, it can
be stated with reasonably accuracy that, at any period of time, about 16% of
the total membership will have joined the club within the last two years. About 40% will have been members for less
than four years and the clubs half life or the period of time where half
the members will be of less and half of more membership length is five and a
half years. 40% of those present will
have been members for more than 7½ years while just over a quarter will have
been in the club for over 12½ years.
Those are some of the figures for the total membership at
any one time, but what are your chances: If you have just joined, there is less than an even chance that you will
still be with us in three years time only 47% of those joining today will
reach this stage. After this, if you
survive the first three years with us, the picture begins to brighten. A quarter of those joining today should be
able to put on a barrel in 1980 to celebrate their ten years of caving or
decadence as it is known in the club. One in every eight should be able to celebrate their double decadence
and over half of those will one day, in the year 2010, be able to claim that
they have been associated with the B.E.C. for no less than forty years!
It was mentioned earlier that the figures for the B.E.C.
show a very good degree of consistency, but obviously, there must be odd
bumps in the curves. These bumps are
not sufficient to make general conclusions invalid, but they do exist. If for example, your membership lies between
50 and 100 or between 300 and 400, you belong to groups which have better than
average records for length of club membership. On the other hand, if your number lies between 100 and 200, you may
congratulate yourself as not being typical of your contemporaries, who mainly
left the club before their natural lifeline was up.
If anyone is interested in the actual figures, these can be
made available on application to the editor.
Next Years B.B.
Although the editorial matter for the Christmas B.B. has to
be written before it is known how large the B.B. will be, it looks very
doubtful that it will be a particularly large one by Christmas standards, and
will be certainly a long way behind Dave Irwins record breaker of last year.
This time next year will see the end of volume 25 of the
B.B. and it is hoped that the start of the B.B.s second quarter of a century
might be the occasion to bring it out in better form. To this end, a scheme has just been put into
operation to make sure that the regular features are produced regularly, so
that the 1971 B.B. can come out more on time than did this years. Whether it will be possible to make further
improvements must, as always, depend on YOU. Some people have responded very well to the appeal for articles BUT NOT
ENOUGH. A few more people contributing
perhaps three or four times during 1971 will make all the difference. How about it?
Alfie
Monthly Notes Number 37
By Ben.
Away Trips. Although more ambitious things had been
planned, the recent B.E.C. and S.M.C.C. trip to
ended up as an amble down Bar Pot to the more accessible parts of Gaping Gill,
where some photographs were taken. The
next trips should prove more interesting and are:- JAN 9TH
St. Cuthberts News. The weekend diggers (C. Priddle, G. Phippen
and T. Large) have dug through the original end of the unusually dry stream
passage below Cone Chamber and reached a constricted flooded rift which is
thought to be fairly close to Continuation Chamber. Sump I is still fighting back. Martin Webster had had to dive it with air
for the for the second time so that it could be bailed and the pipes
refurbished. A week later, the sump was
again flooded, and the Tuesday night diggers are considering leaving it that
way until the drier summer weather arrives. As a diversion, the choke downstream from Traverse Chamber has been dug
through by the Tuesday team. This now
offers a quick, wet and thixatropic alternative to Bypass Passage. It is hoped to enlarge it to make a feasible
rescue route from the bottom of the cave. As such, it will probably always be rather wet but could save a
considerable amount of time.
Stoke Lane Practice
Rescue. The recent C.D.G. practice
rescue through Sump I was quite successful and three people found it quite easy
to guide the victim through the relative spacious underwater extensions of the
sump, avoiding the awkward upstream exit used by cavers.
St. Cuthberts
Practice Rescue. As there were only
sufficient people for two teams, it was decided to test the advantages that
would be gained by using a rescue route via the Main Steam choke. The first party carried from below Stalagmite
Pitch to the Choke where the victim disembarked from the carrying sheet and
went round Bypass Passage. Both the haul
up the pitch, via the outside route, and the subsequent carry were found to be
quite easy and the whole section took about an hour. The victim was then taken from Traverse
Chamber to the top of Pulpit Pitch by the second party. This also ran well at about an hour and a
half. Pulpit Pitch was rigged for hauling
from the bottom. There was a little
difficulty at the top because of insufficient numbers, as at least three people
are required to take the victim up the last few feet which are above the
effective height of the pulley. The cast
was as follows: – Victim: Tom Gage. First Party; Colin Clark, Dick Wickens, Martin Huaun, Pete Stobart,
Colin Dooley, Roy Bennett (Leader). Second Party; Tim Large, Gerald Phippen, Bob Gander, Dave Turner, Steve
Summerhayes, Martin Mills, Bob Craig (Leader). It was confirmed that it was a good route provided that the problems of
the choke itself can be sorted out.
St. Cuthberts
Leaders Meeting. The most important
decisions to emerge from this meeting were to re-open Maypole Series and to
remove five chains and the four rung ladder from the sixteen items of fixed
tackle in the cave. The B.E.C. committee
accepted the Maypole decision but deferred the tackle because of the limited
attendance of leaders at the leaders meeting. The question will be discussed again at the next leaders meeting on May
23rd. A full report of the recent
leaders meeting will follow.
Annual Report of the B.B.L.H. & S.R.G.
Introduction to the Report:
Once a year, readers of the B.B. are only too well aware, it
is the custom of the Belfry Bulletin Literary; Historical and Scientific
Research Group to present its latest findings to an astonished world.
It is therefore not without pride that we are able this year
to announce a happy blend of scientific and historical research. (Its a pity we couldnt somehow drag
literature in but, as our research leader says in his highly erudite fashion
you cant not expect a ruddy miracle, cock!).
During the last year, an astounding scientific discovery by
the B.B.L.B. & S.R.G. has revealed that certain rock crystals posses the
property of being able to store sound not unlike a magnetic tape
recorder. These crystals, however, soon
become saturated and a result, only those sounds which were first heard on
Mendip have been thus preserved as a unique record of prehistoric times. It took many hours or patient work to sort
out human speech from the roaring of lions and the howling of hyenas. there
not being a great deal of difference between them in those days but the job
was finally done, and it is with pride that we present this reconstruction of
life at the time will require drastic revision in the light of what follows
The Report
Lit by the smoky fire, the small band of cave dwellers sat
around their evening meal in the Witches Kitchen of Wookey. Only their leader, Oll, was not squatting
with them and enjoying a meal of roast bos. Oll was standing (a trick first demonstrated by his
great-great-grandfather to an admiring audience and since copied by one and
all) band gazing at the water. He was
thinking. (A trick his
great-great-grandfather had never got around to). He chewed absentmindedly on an old lion bone.
Come and eat with us! growled one of the young men. This roast is good!
Im thinking., Oll replied. Where does all this water
come from? It must run right through the
hill before it comes out here.
So what? The waters
drinkable and it never dries up. What
more do we want to know about it?
Oll turned on the young man. Wheres your spirit of adventure, boy? Wheres your insatiably curiosity that will one day enable our
descendants to do things like flying to the moon and inventing the cave
surveying head? If you spent more time
thinking about things like cave exploration and invention and less time leering
at those young cave girls up in Ebbor, we should make some worthwhile
progress!
If you want us to invent things, you should encourage us
more. You wouldnt listen to our latest
invention! We stamp about on a whole lot
of apples and let the juices run into a lion skin that we cleaned and sewn
up. Then we hang it up for a long time
before we drink it.
Pah! Anyone can
drink fruit juice!
Yes, but we give it to the girls in Ebbor and it makes them
less fierce. Its much less tiring than
chasing them; hitting them over the head with a club and dragging them all the
way back here. After theyve finished
being sick, they get quite docile.
Hmm. It sounds and
interesting invention, but our main job is to get down exploring this cave, and
that means being able to breathe underwater. Now, if we take a hyenas windpipe and sew it up to a lions stomach
.
_______________________
Meanwhile, another small group of cave men were huddled
round a fire in the dark at the top of No Barrows Hill art Priddy. They had finished their meal and were
talking.
Why is it called No Barrows Hill anyway? asked one of the
men. Because there arent any barrows
on it, fool! replied their leader, Wig. The barrows will come much later on and you wont live to see
them. In fact, you wont live much
longer of you dont run away from lions faster than you did today.
Why dont we find a cave to live in, Wig? If we had a cave, we would have a place to
stamp about on apples and leave the juice to stand for a few months. Then we could feed it to those girls down in
Wookey.
Theres a hole in the ground quite near here, said
another. If we climb down it, we could
live in the cave below.
Who ever heard of cave men living in a swallet cave, said
a third. It just isnt done.
An argument broke out, in which fists, lion bones and clubs
figured prominently. Wig ignored this
and thought. At last he spoke.
Its not a bad idea at that! Nor! Youre an ingenious sort of bloke! Try to think of some sort of portable fire so
that we can see what were doing when we get underground! If we can do that, we shant have to spend
all day running away from lions. Maybe
well have enough time to start some kind of civilisation around these parts. We could certainly do with some
______________________
Itll never work! said one cave man to another, as the odd
contraption of animals entrails which were tied by means of various parts of
Oll, disappeared below the still waters of Wookey. His companion continued to sit on the tree branch
he had brought with him without speaking watching the water where Oll had
disappeared.
Whats the matter? asked the first man. And why are you sitting on that branch?
Oll said that I must keep a log all the time he is
underwater. He said it would be part of
the procedure.
Faced with this sort of bad joke, the first man went off in
search of some apple juice. His
companion watched him go. No sense of
humour! he muttered to himself.
_____________________
Well, Nor? said Wig, as they once more met on the top of
No Barrows Hill, Whats that thing youve got there?
I call it a ladder. Its made of two long vines.
I can see that! What
are all those sticks doing in between them? I suppose youre going to tell me that you call them rungs?
Actually, I do. Theyve got holes bored across each end, and the vines go through the
holes.
Yes, I can see but what stops these rungs of yours from
slipping when you put all your weight on them?
Ah! Ive bored a
hole I from one end of each rung to meet the hole where the vine goes
through. Ive wedged a hyena tooth into
each hole an that stops the rung from slipping.
Hmm.
Then Ive taken some blueberries and made a dye and soaked
the vines in it.
What for?
To show the ladder is ours, of course! We dont want other people borrowing our
tackle and claiming its theirs, do we?
No I suppose not. Its not all that bad Nor! Given
steel wire and dural, the same principle would make a damn strong ladder, but I
suppose thatll have to wait. You had
better make a few more and keep some sort of record. Bash some marks on a rock, or something. You could give us a report once a year on how
much of this tackle we had.
Wig turned to the next man of the tribe. What have you come up with, Ben?
Its a thing Ive called a candle. You take apiece of bamboo and put a bit of
dry vine down the middle. Then you stuff
up the bottom with clay and pour lion fat in. When its set, you split the bamboo away and light the top of the
vine. Look! Ill demonstrate!
Not bad at all! It cast no treacherous shadows!
Can we start to explore the cave now, Wig?
Well, weve got all the stuff we need, so we must wait and
hour then we can go in.
Why cant we go in right away?
Because weve got to start off all the traditions
properly. Whoever heard of a Mendip
caving trip starting on time?
Two hours later, the small band made its way to the
depression and Nor slung his ladder down the hole. Swallet caving had begun.
____________________________
Of course we believe you, Oll! said one of the young Wookey
men who had clustered around him as he emerged, wet but triumphant from the
water. But how are we to explore these
new parts of the cave you have discovered without some sort of fire that we can
take through with us?
Well find some way! Perhaps we can wrap up a flint and some tinder in a hyenas stomach and
light a fire.
But the smoke will fill the cave!
Well then, somebody will have to up go to Priddy. I hear that some cave men there have got
things that they call candles. I read
about them in one of those stone tablets that Old keeps bringing round the
Mendip Caveman I think its called. See
what the Priddy lot want in exchange for some candles.
A runner was sent off, while Oll divested himself of his
gear and the whole tribe went off to celebrate his feat by drinking a large
quantity of apple juice. It was very
late that night when the runner returned.
They say they want two lions skin of apple juice!
Two lions skins! But there arent very many of them, are there?
No. But they keep
saying that they never have enough drink laid on at their dinners.
_________________________
Up at Priddy, Nor and two helpers were carting the days
rubbish out of the cave. They had got as
far as the Vine Rift where a vine had been strung to help get tackle along
it. Nor was grumbling.
I wish Wig wouldnt insist that we take all the rubbish out
every day. Why cant we dump it all down
the Rocky Boulder Series?
Wig says that we must practise conservation. He says that all this rubbish could play
merry hell with the ecological balance if we left it here.
I wish he wouldnt keep on inventing all these new words!
He says its all part of our becoming civilised. Anyway, he says that if we left remains in
the cave, it would baffle future archaeologists whatever they are!
I suppose hes right. Give me a hand with this detailer bucket.
___________________________
Down in the Dining Room, Wig was examining a device which
Bry had made. Its downright
ingenious! Just the kind of thing we
need to help get a civilization going! What does it do, Bry?
Its for surveying. You look down this bamboo tube and swivel
Wig shook his head.
No, Bry. Lets
forget it for now. Once we start this
surveying stunt, well spend all our time arguing about traverse closures and
never get anything done. Its best left
for the future.
____________________________
Meanwhile in Wookey, Oll was laying down the law to a
somewhat rebellious lot of cave dwellers.
I say that we shall get in a hopeless muddle with all the
sumps we have discovered unless we learn to count. Now lets try it once again and Ill mind
you that nobody gets any of that sirloin of lion until we all got it
right! Now say again after me
Wookey 3, Wookey 4, Wookey 5, Wookey 6
.
____________________________
Wig! said Ben, Weve discovered a sump!
Well kill it and give it to the girls to cook!
Its not alive.
Then take it out of the cave! How many times do I have to remind you lot
about the importance of cave preservation?
Its part of the cave. Its where the water goes through a passage and fills it completely with
no airspace.
Ah! said Wig, thoughtfully. They have places like that in Wookey so Ive
heard (from the Mendip Caveman Ed.) We
must be getting close. See if you can
get Nor to come up with some method of digging it out.
__________________________
All right! said Oll peevishly. So its enormous and it goes on and on and
on and on! Just because you youngsters
have invented this new lightweight breathing gear, you think youve opened up
the whole cave! You may think us older
cavers were pretty slow lot, but let me remind you that we pioneered this
sport! We never had all the advantages
that you lot have got. All these fancy
sphincter valves and that! I hope you
can clean them out properly first!
Yes we do, Oll. We
have to. Hyenas have a pretty potent
digestive system. But the passage does
really go on and on. We call it a master cave.
Master cave? Why?
Well, why not? Someone has to invent new words. Anyway, thats not the point. We
went right to the end of this passage, and it finishes in a sump.
Of course it finishes in a sump! All passages in Wookey finish in sumps. Everybody knows that!
Yes, but this sump is being dug from the other side. While we watched, an artefact kept appearing
and disappearing, and it was moving mud out of the way.
An artefact?
Sorry. Its another
of those new words. I should have said a
tool.
Now I know what you mean. Everybody knows what a tool is! I
do wish that you youngsters would I learn to call a spade a spade?
Oll thought.
It could be that lot from Priddy, I suppose. We must have a grand expedition to this
spot. Well take the whole tribe and
three lion skins of apple juice. Itll
take a lot of organising so wed better all get cracking
__________________________
I think, said Ben to Wig, that this new sump will soon
go. These spade things of Nors are
shifting it pretty well.
Wig nodded. A lot had
happened since the day when, as a young man, he had first led the tribe into
this cave. Besides the new spades, there
was the permanent tackle on the arête and ledge pitches which made journeys to
the surface easier for the older folk. Rumour had it that Nor was working on a thing called a Maypole.
I suggest, said Wig, that when weve passed this sump, we
have a grand celebration on the other side. We can drink up all the apple juice we got from the Wookey lot in
exchange for candles. Lets see if we
can get through as soon as possible!
_____________________________
Even Oll had to admit that the new passage was
impressive. The whole tribe were dwarfed
by the vast halls through which they travelled. Even the lion skins of apple juice carried on the mens backs looked
small. Every so often, Oll called a halt
and it was during one of these rests that they noticed the lights in the
distance. Soon, the lights got nearer,
and the men put down their loads and clutched their clubs menacingly. They could see the strangers now cave dwellers
like themselves and a rough looking lot into the bargain. The men growled. Oll appealed to them.
Relax, men! Its
only another lot of cavers! Put down
your clubs at once! If cavers fight
whenever they meet, itll be a poor example to set for future generations. These people are probably as human as we
are. Let me go and speak to them.
____________________________
As Oll approached, Wig picked up a large stone but realised
that they were fellow cavers and put is down again. The two men faced each other and shook
hands. This, said Oll, is a historic
moment.
An historic moment, corrected Wig.
Ah! said Oll, I see youve discovered grammar! Between us, we have just made the first
through connection on Mendip.
Yes, said Wig, and itll be a long time before they
manage to do it again.
We planned a celebration, said Oll, and weve brought
three skins of apple juice along.
So did we.
Then let us, said Oll, celebrate!
Wig nodded his agreement.
Let us make a joint announcement, he said.
__________________________
On the floor of the immense hall, a scene of utter
debauchery existed. Cave dwellers lay in
heaps beside empty lion skins. Apple
juice ran everywhere. It was not unlike
the Shepton Dinner after a boat race. On
a stal bank slightly above the mass of revelry, as befitted their station, sat
Oll and Wig.
Wed better combine, said Oll. After this lot, its going to be damn nigh
impossible to sort our tribes out again.
Yes, I agree. Our
young men seem to have got hold of all your young girls.
And vice versa. I
didnt see you down there amongst them?!
Well no. Actually,
as leader, I found it necessary to drink more of that apple juice than any of
my men. Matter of prestige, you
understand.
I felt that I had to do as well. Did it have any effect on you?
Yes, it did as a matter of fact. Most odd!
I was the same. What
do you plan to do now that we are about to merge, Wig?
I think Ill retire from leadership. Im planning to bring out a series of
definitive reports on this cave system. Its going to take and awful lot of blocks of stone! What will you do, Oll?
Im planning to retire too. Ive got a scheme for taking a hollow log and putting a sot of handle on
one end. Then Im going to get six
strings made out of wildcat gut and stretch them along the log. I think I might be able to get some sort of
tune out of it with any luck.
They smiled happily at each other as they slowly collapsed
to the floor.
Alfie
_____________________
P.S. Anyone who finds
that they like this type of humour might try reading a book called The
Evolution of Man (Penguins) where they will find it done a damn sight better.
Climbing Meet
By Roy Marshall
The Climbing Section had a meet in
Wales
is roughly what happened.
The party consisting of Derek Targett, Sandie and baby,
Nigel Jago, Nigel Rich, Pete and Maggie Sutton, Abb-Sell, Ina, Penny, Gerry
(official photographer) Fred Atwell and myself to name but a few; left
Bristol separately and converged, as is our habit, on the HOP POLE at
LEOMINSTER where we are almost regulars. After resting and suitable refreshment, we carried on to the campsite in
the pass. We moved from our normal
site beneath the Grochan to a more even site on the opposite side of the road
beneath the Wasted.
Fortunately, there was a bright moon on Friday night,
otherwise I dont think many would have made the campsite. To reach it, one has to cross a very dubious
bridge across the stream and then launch ones car on to a track-cum-scree
slope leading to flat ground. Anyway,
after risking our suspensions, we all arrived finally at about midnight.
Saturday morning was very sunny but cold, and the married
couples were left huddling over the camping gaz, while the rest made for Pen-y-Pass. The Pen-y-pass is a new Youth Hostel being
built at the head of the Snowdon Horseshoe and makes a welcome change from the
squalor and overcrowding of Wendys The
meals are subsidised by the Y.H.A., so you get a really good breakfast
cheep. At present you do not have to
belong to the Y.H.A. to use the café.
After breakfast, Brant direct repulsed a number of intrepid
B.E.C. climbers, who convinced themselves that they didnt want to do it
anyway. They moved into Craig Dhu where
Nigel Jago, Derek and Fred did Petit Fleur and Yellow Groove (VS). Ian and Pete practiced abseiling from the
second pitch of Anthropology (VS). The
baby, with the rest of the ladies, attempted the Pyg Track. Nigel, Rich and myself also went on the Pyg
Track, Nigel going to
new boots.
It is always difficult gathering information about Saturday
evenings from any B.E.C. member. It will
have to suffice that everyone had a happy time, thanks to a benevolent landlord
in the Vaynel Arms in Nant Peris. Fred,
Dick and Gerry had some amusing stories about Saturday night, but they are too
funny to be true. After breakfast on
Sunday, the group again split. Derek,
Nigel Jago and Gerry going to the Garreg Wasted to climb Trilon (VS). Pete and myself hauled our gear up to the
Cromlech. As if this wasnt enough,
Pete, after a half hearted attempt by me, led Cobweb Crack (VS). While this climbing was going on, the ladies
were left to amuse themselves in the pass. Graham and Fred had driven on to Pembrokeshire and Nigel had decided to
walk home. Pete and myself were the last
to arrive back from our climb. Meeting
the others in the pass, we all made for home, picking up Nigel rich on the
way. All arrived safely except Graham
and Fred who had a seized wheel bearing on the way back from Pembrokeshire.
Editors
Note: It never rains but it pours! We asked for articles and indeed, the only
reason for the lateness of this Christmas B.B. is due to the fact that we did
not have enough to print until yesterday. We also asked for humorous articles although we did ask for more
serious stuff as well. On our doorstep
yesterday, in answer to all this, arrived a massive document. It turned out to be another of Jok Orrs
masterpieces. He says that he enjoyed
writing it, and we think you will enjoy reading it over Christmas, so settle
down sorry, doon with a wee dram or three and get on with
.
On Seutra Hill
On the last bleak day of a particular miserable Scottish
November, the North Wind came snarling out of the high wilderness of snow and
ice and pounced on the frozen slopes of Seutra hill. It drove its sharp sleety teeth through the
lashings branches of a straggling plantation of gnarled spruce and cypresses
upon the solid wall of Seutra Monastery. Fretting and whirring over the rough stone surface, it probed for cracks
and gnawed at the moss-covered roof slabs, seeking a way in through the
impregnable masonry for its rheumatic draughts.
Ensconced within a sheltering niche overlooking the
monastery entrance, the effigy of Saint MacSoolis gazed blandly out upon this
view of streaming wet desolation with benevolent visage, his right arm extended
and two fingers pointing derisively upward in perpetual benediction. A discrete plaque attached to the plinth
whereon the statue stood, bore the inscription BLACK MacSOOLIS. REFORMED CATTLE RUSTLER: VILLAGE PLUNDERER
AND OUTLAW. CHIEF OF THE CHEVIOTLAND
REIVERS, LATTERLY BARON OF
DID FOUND THIS MONASTERY AND DECLARED HIMSELF OUR PATRON SAINT.
Further up the frost-blasted hill, at some distance removed,
the tumbled remains of a crumbling, roofless byre housed the monasterys
collection of neglected farm animals. At
the back of this byre, where it had been tacked onto the hillside, the wild mountain
goats had annexed the cave entrance from whence the stone to build the byre had
been excavated, for their winter quarters. The ram, made angry by the damp and cold in his matted coat a wicked
beast of uncommonly large stature butted and bullied the other goats out of
his way and slouched into the dark interior of the shelter in search of his
favourite dry spot which lay situated some way down a narrow passage he had
discovered last winter. The rest of the
goats followed him with some hesitation, uncertain of their footing and wary of
the darkness. The solitary, disgruntled
sow who existed in a state of permanent dispute with the goats concerning their
proprietorial attitude over the matter of the rock shelter, stared balefully a
their departing rumps; and the cows shifted their hooves in the mire, for twas
near twilight and long past milking time and there was still no sign of Brother
Walt.
Far out on the right flank of the hill, overlooking the
monastery and its surroundings, a picket of recoats crouched in a sodden bothy
swearing at each other; the weather; the Scottish heathens; the smoking fire;
the sleet; the wind; the wet; the maggot-ridden rations and the English
governor basking like a well-fed warm shark in the comfort of Edinburgh Castle. The sergeant of redcoats in charge of the
picket stood outside the bothy, a cape slung round his shoulders. There was an implacable patience in his
stance as if had stood there for many months and would continue to stand there
for as long as it need be. He was the
army. And the army could afford to
wait. And wait he would until the
renegade MacPhail thought it safe to emerge from the sanctuary of the
monastery. Then, back to
prisoner, and no doubt a reward of a few golden guineas from the governor and a
spell of well-earned rest for himself and his lads.
Close within the monastery dining hall, the jovial smoke of
Seutra didnt give a jot for the north wind or anything else in the outside
world. They sat before the huge open fireplace,
enjoying the warmth from its blazing logs, exchanging banter, quip and jest and
making merry din. For this day, and
indeed the last day of every month, the Fraternal Communion Day when all
penances were suspended, scourges put away, and hair shirts hung up to
air. Most welcome privilege of all was
permission to break silence from rising time in the morning until
midnight. Indeed, the atmosphere was
more than usually relaxed because of the absence of the Abbot and his prior who
had departed on horseback three days ago on an ecclesiastical visit to Jedburg
convent.
However, Fraternal Communion Day was no excuse for the
general hilarity and excess of cordiality that was evinced in the monks
behaviour. The good Abbot and his
observant priors would have viewed the proceedings with scandalised
astonishment and called for immediate retribution. The order was based on strict compliance to
chastity; serous decorum, discipline and frugality in all things. Conversation and discussion on this day of
the month was supposed to provide an opportunity for an uplifting of the
spirit, not a garrulous uproar of humour and ribaldry.
Perhaps it was just as well that the Abbot and his priors
had no inkling of what was going on behind their backs. Half of the monks were secretly drunk and the
other half were near to it as makes no difference. Not only were they breaking on of their
strictest vows, insomuch as it was a mortal sin to even think about the word
drink, but they were doing it with such deceit and cunning that it amounted
to nothing less than a mutiny against the order of MacSoolis. It was well known that more than one unhappy
wretch had undergone severe penance for daring to venture a nostalgic word or
two about his past fondness for some essential brew of malt and barley, and it
was whispered that one of the brothers who had smuggled a flagon of mead into
the monastery was still paying the penalty to this day, walled up in the vaults
and fed twice a week by the cruel hand of a grim-jawed prior. How else to explain the muffled thuds and
faint cries of lamentation from under the flagstones?
Back to get back to the secretly drunken monks. What was even worse than the deceit and
cunning of it all was the way went on at it. They had developed tippling to a fine art. Not a glimpse was to be seen of the crafty
dram tucked away inside the folds of the draped sleeve. The casual lift of the arm and the furtive
twist of the wrist and the surreptitious sip behind the droop of the cowl might
easily be mistaken for as a simple gesture of wiping the dripping nose with the
forefinger.
The audacious perpetrator of this subterfuge was no less
person than the renegade, Brother Hamish MacPhail a wolf in sheeps clothing
if there ever was one. It was entirely
the fault of his natural talent for creating trouble, and the weakness for the
drink that had cost him his last job as a torturer in the grim dungeons of
brought the redcoats to wait for him like vultures on the hillside.
To his credit, he was thorough in whatever he set his mind
to, and had been acknowledged in the castle as an expert with the ironmongery
and a skilled craftsman at the intricacy of the rack; knowing just how far to
stretch a joint in order to entertain the governors mistress who was usually
hanging about watching his performance. The lady was so intrigued with some of his subtle variations that one
day she entreated him to give her a personal demonstration on the rack with
herself as the willing victim. Being
drunk at the time, he was in no condition to resist her suggestion and soon had
her strapped down on proceeded to stretch her to the accompaniment of her
delighted squeals. The governor
completely misunderstood the version reported to him by a spy and went ranting
and storming through the castle, livid with rage, to give MacPhail a taste of
lingering death in his own torture chamber.
Receiving warnings of the governors intentions, Hamish
MacPhail had fled the castle and had made his escape to the sanctuary of the
Seutra Monastery. Incarcerated within
its walls and denied access to liquor, MacPhail realised that the necessity of
quenching his alcoholic thirst would result in certain capture by the redcoats
if he so much as attempted to sneak out in search of a drink. Somehow, he managed to drag himself through
the unendurable anguish of the long days and nights of total abstinence, but
his protesting nerves began twitching and quivering like fine hairs growing
under his skin and his expression became drawn and haggard with worry. He went about his monastic duties with
trembling lips and darting eyes his hands shaking and his body twitching in
uncontrollable spasms. An outsider would
have been shocked at his appearance, but it aroused little comment within the
monastic community except for nods of approval and acceptance from the dour and
uncommunicative monks who thought that he was surely adjusting himself to the
austerity and hardship of their existence.
MacPhail decided in the middle of a particularly bad night
of restless tossing and turning on his hard bed that he would manufacture his
own brew. He got up and ripped the pitch
pine planks out of his bed and, scraped off the beads of resin, hurried to the
scullery and boiled them up into a bitter but satisfying brew. Once started, there was no halting the
ingenious flow of ideas. Recruiting the
aid of certain other blackguards sheltering at Seutra, he dug out a chamber
beneath the floor of his cell and installed a small but highly efficient still.
When the first potent brew trickled through this
contraption, MacPhail and his cronies excused themselves to solitary meditation
and went on a three day bender underneath the flagstones. In another week or so, they were wandering
about the precincts of the monastery carrying bottles of the stuff hanging from
belts around their waists, and distributing the supplies under cover of their
voluminous habits. One had only to mention
the password, WHIT THE PRIORS EEN DINNA SEEN; THE ABBOTS LUGHOLE WILLNA
KEEN
And on the occasion the Abbot rebuked the assembled monks
for overindulging their appetite for garlic, and complained about the odour of
onions hanging about the monastery, he had to threaten to cut the bread ration
if the sniggering did not cease immediately. The sniggering ceased all right, but the demand for MacPhails brew
doubled within the next couple of days.
Leaving Hamish MacPhail to carry on towards his inescapable
reckoning with destiny, and returning to the dining hall, we find that it is
now supper time. The merry brotherhood
move unsteadily away from the warmth of the fire and sit themselves down at the
long table in anticipation of their meal. One or two of them beat out a tattoo on their food bowls causing Brother
Jamie McLean of
to lift his habit round hits knees and rotate his portly figure in a travesty
of a highland fling. Out in the chilly
scullery where he was preparing supper, Brother Ignatius de Quincey, a
Sassenach from over the border, adamant teetotaller and probably the only monk
in the entire monastery remaining true to his vocation, frowned disapprovingly
at the howls of tipsy merriment issuing from the dinning hall. Deservedly unpopular for the reasons already
stated, it was his unhappy lot to be at the beck and call of whosoever required
his services. He heaved the huge
cauldron of steaming porridge from the kitchen range and staggered into the
dinning hall where he dished it up for the rumbustuous monks.
There was a brief recession of noise for a few perfunctory
words of grace to be gabbled, then they continued the uproar again and went at
the porridge with lusty appetites. Exclamations of horror and disgust broke out among the eaters. Expectorated porridge flew in all
directions. Several monks fell over
backwards from the table, recoiling from the vile and terrible taste in their
mouths.
Ye bliddy
Sassenach! roared Hamish MacPhail. Whit
ye trying tae do? Pizen us all? De Quincey gaped at the writhing monks in
consternation, too taken aback by the reception his porridge had received to
think of escaping from the terrible
MacPhail. Whit, roared MacPhail again,
did ye mak this mizzerable skilly oot o? Soor mulk and tatty peelins? Taste it! Taste it, ye mizzerable
wee wretch!
At this juncture, one of the monks who had rushed off to the
scullery to swill his mouth out with water entered the dining hall with a
pitcher in his arms. Nivver mind the
parritch noo! he yelled. The wee
Sassenach has used yesterdays bath water tae mak it wuth! He proffered the pitcher to MacPhail who
sipped from it fastidiously. By Saint
MacSoolis! he roared. Yur right! He grabbed hold of the unhappy de
Quincey. What dye mean by makin the
parritch oot o oor auld bath watter? Eh
O. De Quincey wriggled in his
grasp. Its not true! He
protested. I drew the water from the
well only half an hour ago. It must be
fresh! It must be!
Brother Eustace Smith, a lowlander of mild disposition,
spoke up on behalf of de Quincey. Gintlemum! Gintlemum! We must obsairve the proprieties, ye ken,
just because he doesny jine in the festiveeties! Chuck the bliddy wee teetotaller doon the
bliddy well and lets get on with the bliddy drinkin!
The rest of the monks roar a unanimous chorus of approval;
laid hold of the struggling de Quincey and frog-marched him back to the
scullery. But another voice of authority
blared above the clamour. Wait! It was Brother Inglis of Hawick noted for
his piety until the whiskey got at him. Wait the noo! Accordin to the
taste o the watter, yon Sassenach has been tipping the rubbish doon the well
instead of o carrying it outside. I
think we should lower him doon and mak him clean it oot. Otherwise hoo
oot!
Forthwith, they sat de Quincey in the well bucket, gave him
a burning pitch pine form the fire for a light, and lowered him down with
admonishments to send up the rubbitch or else he would stay down there for
the rest of the night.
At the bottom of the well, de Quincey stepped out of the
bucket and considered his situation. The
well, he recognised by the light of his torch, was not a well at all. It was, in fact, a deep pool of water fed by
a stream which flowed along the bed of a fair sized natural passage similar to
many such underground places he had explored in his native
they would pull up the bucket and leave him down the well all night. On the other hand, there could be another way
out since there must be and entrance to the cave upstream. Light, however, was the problem. Im looking for the rubbish he shouted
back, But its all dark down here and I cant see very well. There was some muttering from above and then
another bellow. Mind yer heid! and a
bundle of faggots thumped on to the rock on which he was standing.
Tearing strips from his habit, de Quincey tied the precious
sticks together, the more conveniently to carry them through the cave, he
shouted up the well shaft, Hang on a minute! Ive got the lights going now Im going up a passageway that I have
found to look for the rubbish. With
this reassurance to the impatient monks, he set of in search of a way out.
The echoes of this last exchange of shouting preceded his
progress by some minutes, since sound travels faster than a caving monk, and
awoke the irate ram from his sleep on the soft but uncomfortable cold patch of
sand further up the cave. The ram got to
his feet and kicked the nearest recumbent ewe goat to get rid of the cramp in
his haunches. He listened intently. Yes, there was definitely something moving
down there. Probably that wall-eyed
sow. The thought infuriated him. That pig had no right to be in his shelter. No common pig had any right to a dry place to
lie in. Especially that pig. A pigs place was out in the wind and
cold. He would go down there and butt
that damned impudent pig back to where it belonged.
It was thus that Brother Ignacious de Quincey, on rounding a
corner, was surprised to finds a fair sized ram barring his advance. The ram, equally surprised at seeing the
steadily brightening gleam of light followed by the sudden appearance of the
monk instead of the expected pig, jumped backwards in a reflex leap coincident
with de Quinceys own backward somersault and, turning in mid air, galloped a
short distance up the cave where he halted on the shadows, and looked back.
Now that ram, once it had got an idea into its head, was not
lightly to be deflected from its purpose. Nothing could shift it. It had
come down here to get a pig, and a pig it was going to have. Anything that even looked like a pig was in
trouble, and there was definitely something silhouetted in the feeble light of
the monks torch that looked like a pig. The ram put his head down, presented his horns, and charged.
De Quincey listened to the approaching clatter of hooves in
profound consternation. The ram was coming to get him. Forsooth, he hadnt a chance. The fall had winded him, but he struggled to
his feet. The ram, at full tilt now, saw
his mistake when he was about a yard away from what he had taken to be a
pig. De Quincey watched, horrified, as
the ram, veering at the last moment, smashed into an inoffensive boulder
perched on four stumpy stalagmites and sent the lot scattering.
The ram, still conscious albeit slightly concussed, regarded
the monk with some confusion. A moment
ago, he had been asleep with the rest of the goats. So why was he standing here looking at a
monk? It must be some nightmare. Slowly, as if indeed in a dream, the ram
turned his back on the monk and plodded back up the cave. De Quincey heaved a sigh of relief and
muttered a fervent prayer of thanks. He
picked up the torch and looked around, wondering what to do next. He couldnt go on. That was for sure. Hed come across many unusual things in caves
back home, but a ram! A crazy ram
roaming about under the ground and smashing up boulders! That was something that was just typical of
battering rams. De Quincey
shuddered. Battering Rams! He started shaking all over. The brute must have mistaken the boulder in
the dim light for himself. It was an act
of providence that had saved him from a severe mauling. Better to return to the monastery and risk
the wrath of the monks who were probably so drunk by now that they would have
forgotten all about the porridge. Anyway, at least he now had the answer to the foul taste of the water. The ram would account for that. No wonder that the porridge was polluted. He laughed hysterically as an idea occurred
to him, and imagined the ram let loose amongst the drunken monks. That would teach them a thing or two the
Scotch bullies!
And why not? he asked aloud in sudden inspiration. By Saint MacSoolis, why not? He hastened back to the well, igniting his
supply of faggots on the way and leaving them at intervals to illuminate the
cave. Are you still there? he shouted
up the well shaft. There was no
reply. Anxiously, he gave the bucket
rope a hefty shake which rattled the windlass. There was a commotion of shuffling feet from above. Whut dye want doon ther? Somebody bellowed,
makin that confounded racket on oor machinery! Have ye foond the rubbitch then?
De Quincey felt a surge of hope at the sound of the
voice. Send me down I mean doon a
bottle of whiskey! He shouted, and
listened to the mutterings from above, wondering if his scheme would work.
What fur? came he surprised reply. He answered with another shout, spacing his
words to make then distinct. Because
Ive found a passage down here, and a good way along there are some rotting
chests full of metal stuff and shining stones and I want a drink to keep warm
while I go and have another look. A
babble of exited argument rose from above his head, then abruptly ceased at the
crafty solicitous voice of MacPhail came wheedling down to him. Git yerself intae the bucket mun, and well
gie ye a wee dram up heer and a warm in front o the fire afore ye go doon
again. Ye must be nigh on perished with
the cauls!
At the top of the well, MacPhail pulled him bodily out of
the bucket and dumped him gently on his feet, surrounded by a ring of attentive
faces. Noo then, ma wee many, whits
this aboot chests filled wi stuff, eh? It widna be Saint MacSooliss treasure noo that yeve foond, wid
it? Ye widna be tryin tae cheat yer
brother monks oot o theer share wi ye? De Quincy quailed before them in mock fright. Its treasure all right, Brother
MacPhail. I just wanted to make quite sure
before I came up to tell you. Thats
all. MacPhail leered at him. Aye! Ocourse ye did ma wee many. Noo awa and warm yeresel in front o the
fire. Heres your whiskey. Well gang doon the well and bring the stuff
oot for ye! Awa wi ye noo!
The monks on the outer fringe of the listening circle were
already edging over to the well. Me
first! bellowed MacPhail. Ill hae
nane o that! Git oot o ma way ye
scurvy bunch o hypocrites! he
shouldered through the jostling throng who were by now so drunk that they has
to support one another to avoid falling flat on their faces.
No sooner than MacPhail had disappeared overt the edge of
the well than there was a concerted rush for the rope. Body crashed into body. Skin ripped off against stone. Hands burned on the rope. Fist and sandal flailed into rib and
groin. Some jumped in feet first to get
the press of bodies on the move, sure of a soft landing. Others dived in head first, too drunk to know
or care which way up they were. The din
of thuds yells and curses and the stench of honked up whiskey was
appalling. De Quincey waited for the
sounds of departure to fade into the distance and then calmly cut the rope.
The ram woke from his already disturbed slumber in a worse
temper than he could ever remember. This
row was just too intolerable. What the
hell was going on? It was that damned
pig again. Memory of the incidents
leading up to the stunning impact with the boulder returned with it, the
realisation that the pig had tricked him into charging into a trap. That monk! What was he doing down there? He
was surely in league with that pig. That
was it! The pair of them were probably
laughing their heads off now, but what kind of fool did they take him for? Hed show them this time!
The rams rage was so vicious that for a moment or two all
he could do was to totter around gasping for breath, stepping indiscriminately
on the other goats and scattering them with savage butts as they started to
their feet. That pig! He would deal with that pig once and for
all! Judging from the bellowing and
stampeding about coming from below him, that damned pig must have taken all
those mud-wallowing cows with her just to wake up decent goats and to annoy
them. Well, the whole damned lot were
going to get it. Right where it hurts
most. Hard.
Such was the rams fury that it communicated itself to the
younger rams in the herd, who began to leap about in the dark butting and
kicking each other and anything else within range including the solid walls of
the cave. Then, as if prompted by some
instinctively sensed signal, the whole lot herd of goats gathered itself
together and raced after the ram who had gone running off down the cave with
such speed and purpose that his steel hard hooves struck sparks off the rocks.
Brother Hamish MacPhail, lured on by the flickering light
for de Quinceys carefully placed torches, was still in the lead, but only
just. He plunged ahead of the stumbling
monks. Tripping over his own lacerated feet and the tangled remnants of his
tattered habit which hung in strips from his battered body. Five monks had fallen on top of him in the
well shaft, pounding him into the pool where he had nearly drowned. His right arm hung useless dislocated at
the shoulder and his eyes peered from slitted lids that were just about the
only recognisable feature left on his trampled face. He was still to drunk to appreciate his
pitiful condition, but not yet beyond feeling bewilderment at the way the walls
of the cave kept crashing into him when there was really ample room and width
of passage to run through ahead of the others and get to the treasure first.
The howling mob behind him were in no better shape. Some had thrown aside the heavy cloth
garments on the way and were shambling through the cave completely naked and
unprotected from the sharp rock. Three
others had climbed up into the narrow roof to traverse along overhead and now
fell in a heap, frantically clutching each other as they fell. Another beat his fists against the wall,
screaming to be let out and a maudlin bunch of slack-mouthed inebriates, so
drunk that they has forgotten what they were supposed to be there for, stood
lurching and swaying before a large slab of stone intoning the beatitudes in
solemn incoherence.
MacPhail didnt even have time to stop his staggering run
when Auld Nick appeared before him. But
he did pray, if only for a flash of frightened thought, for the first time in
his life, when he saw what was coming at him tearing straight for him out of
the dark, with his horns and his beard and his cloven hooves and hairy body and
terrible glaring yellow eyes. His last
thought was when the crash came and the wind whooshed out of his gaping mouth,
was that he had been taken and was on his way to hell.
There was no merciful oblivion for the rest of the
monks. Those in the rear were trampled
underfoot in the backwash from the shambles up in front. Some had a chance to run, and run they did
for the sake of their very souls, never mind their lives. The goats threw themselves upon their fleeing
victims with ferocious accuracy. If
there wasnt room on the floor of the cave to get a clear run at the waddling
posteriors, they then took to the walls and their flailing hooves knocked down
the flaming torches in showers of sparks to fall on the heads and shoulders of
the monks, where they were promptly followed by butts and kicks.
The Abbot and his priors returned late on the night of that
last day in November in the middle of a violent thunderstorm to learn that the
monastery had a new tenant. The Devil
had moved in and the monks were moving out and theyd set light to the place to
make their guest feel more at home. Saint MacSoolis lay in fragments on the ground, struck by a
thunderbolt. Most of the monks had
already departed into the night in search of a bed to sleep in. The few that remained were limping around in
the driving rain, attending those who could not walk and getting them into
improvised litters ready to face the six mile journey to the nearest
cottage. It was the Sassenach de
Quincey explained one of the bloodstained monks to the Abbot, in league with
them doon below. He tricked us intae the
jaws o Hades. All flames and fire and
demented things rushing aboot an underground passage leadin doon tae hell. We wur lucky tae get oot alive!
The phlegmatic sergeant of redcoats sat astride his horse
and watched the exodus from then blazing monastery with a sardonic smirk on his
face; the nearest he had come to smiling for years. He sniffed appreciatively at the fine smell
of wood smoke, stale drink singed flesh and scorched cloth which hung in the
dam air. The prisoner MacPhail looked as
if an avalanche had hit him the way he was wrapped up in bandages and
splints. Yes, he had been through the
mill all right, yelling and swearing one minute and gabbling prayers the next. Still, with luck he would recover on his way
to
and be fit enough for the tortures that awaited him there. Meanwhile, there was nothing to hang about
here for in the driving rain. Best to be
moving. He jerked MacPhails chain,
pulling him forward in a shuffling, slithering run across the churned-up
ground, and addressed his picket of soldiers. On your way, you scum! On your
way! Back to
on that rascal of a monk and see he doesnt escape.
All this happened many years ago, and there is such a place
as Seutra Hill, where you can still see the ruins of the monastery. To this day, the locals say the place is
curst, and they steer away from its loneliness. In fact, the only living thing youll find up there are a few wild
mountain goats, munching contentedly at the withered brown bracken.
Jok Orr
Climbing Notes
by the Climbing Sec.
Climbing Meet to the
Gower Peninsular, 21st to23 rd November, 1970
Those present were N. Jago, P. Sutton, D. Targett, G. Atwell
and G. Oaten.
After pitching the tents at
car park in pouring rain and Gale Force winds, we all agreed that the weekend
had not got off to a good start.
On Saturday, the weather still wasnt all that good, and so
we headed for the cliffs in big boots and cagoules, hoping to be able to climb
some of the easier routes. Our plans
worked very well until we were hit by a hailstorm halfway up a route. We quickly abseiled off and the rest of the
day was spent on boulder problems.
Sunday brought better weather, so we headed for the cliffs
of Pennard East. Much of the day was
spent trying to find the cliffs, for the guidebook wasnt very good in
describing the way. We reached them
eventually, and climbed a few short routes.
To sum up. We were
not very impressed by the cliffs, because the rock was frequently poor, but I
can recommend the cliff top walks around the
Christmas Puzzle
(B O)W = W I N S
(N W )O = W A G E S
You might find this interesting enough to while away the
time when the pubs are shut over the Christmas holiday
Where the letters stand for numbers.
For example,
(B O)W might be 372
From the two equations above, who is 545 5076802 ?
(He is a well known member of the club, not unconnected with
the two words of the equations. A prize
of two pints of beer for the correct solution. In case of more than one solution being received, then the solution
which solves the problem in the neatest and most elegant manner.)
Solution To Last Months Crossword
Monthly Crossword Number 7.
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Across
1. Dependable to the last? (7)
4. Mendip Association has an extremely mixed title. (1,1,1,1,1)
5. Aural connections. (5)
7. Ave poles for climbing these. (5)
8. O, lets mine it on Mendip. (4)
Down:
1. Priceless formation? (4,5)
2. Lights mixed financial penalties. (5)
3. A dipper in Goatchurch. (9)
4. Northern hills minus Mendip hill leaves these numbers on Mendip hill. (5)
6. Found in O.C.L. in Old Grotto vertically measuring. (3,4)
Stencils completed 30.12.70
Happy New Year!