Hon. Sec: A.R. Thomas. Allens House,

Nine Barrows Lane, Priddy, Wells,

Somerset.
Hon. Editor: – S.J. Collins, Lavender Cottage, Bishop Sutton,

Bristol

Opinions expressed in all articles except those coming from
the committee as a whole do not necessarily reflect club policy.

Editorial

Festive Season

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.

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-on-Trim,

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.

35p 15p   30p 22p 15p 15p 10p 60p

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

Surveys

MENDIP:     YORKSHIRE:

Ubley Warren Pot (dyeline) 30” x 15” East Twin (O) Avelines (O) Marble Steps (O) Rumbling (O) Leck Fell (inc. Lost Johns) 48” x 24” (O) Notts Pot (inc. recent discoveries) 36” x 24” (O)

20p 10p 10p 10p 10p 25p 30p

Other surveys including Swildons, Longwood,

Stoke Lane,
Eastwater, available during January 1972.

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?

 

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.

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 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 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.

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!

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 osites 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.

 

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.

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

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

SUMP IX

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.

 

The Great

Cave of
Chévre-Eglise

by N. Castanet

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.

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

 

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!

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”

 

Club Caving Trips in 1972

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 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.

New Addresses and Alterations to Members Addresses

731 680   581   694 597 723 654

R. Bidmead M. Bishop E. Bishop T.A. Brooks R. Cross P. Eckford C. Harvey R. Hobbs D. Jones R. Sell A. Stone R. Voke M.Large

4 Dine Grove, Bristol 7 ‘Islay’, 98 Winsley Hill, Limpley Stoke, Nr. Bath, Somerset. Was Miss E. Williamson 37 Wyatt Park Road, London SW2 12 Clifton Terrace, Falmouth, Cornwall 80 Wilton Gardens, Shirley, Southampton ‘Byways’, Hanham Lane, Paulton, Somerset Rose Cottage, West End, Nailsea, Nr. Bristol 11 Queensford, Calne, Wilts 51 Swiss Road, Ashton Vale, Bristol 3 76 Rancliffe Gardens, Eltham, London SE9 8 Pavey Road, Hartcliffe, Bristol 3 Was Miss M. Thompson and is now at T. Large’s address

 

Make a note of JANUARY 31st. It is the day your 1972 subs are due. Why not give Bob a surprise.

 

A Day in Letterewe Foreszt

by Steve Grime

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.

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.

 

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.

“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 sewn-in 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.

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
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-y-Rhydd.  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.

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

Ann and Kangy King –
August 1970.

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 tourists
by his explorations and writings.  His
achievements, even by today’s 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.

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.

 

Monthly Crossword – Number 17.

Across:

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)

Down:

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)

Solution To Last Month’s Crossword