QUODCUMQUE  FACIENDUM : NIMIS  FACIEMUS

Editorial

Congratulations

The discovery of a new major cave on Mendip is always an occasion
for some rejoicing, and congratulations are due to Pete McNab (Snab) and his
merry men of the Tynings Institute for Troglodytic Studies on their successful
entry and exploration of Tynings Barrow Swallet.

Another aspect of their work which deserves praise is the
way that they stabilised and maintained good relations with the farmer.  Soon after the hole first appeared, after the
great storm of 1968, some thoughtless cavers got to the swallet by breaking
through the nearest hedge.  The farmer;
who keeps sheep in the field, was justifiably annoyed, and filled in the
hole.  Last year, Snab not only managed
to restore good relations, but even kept them that way after an incident where
some visiting cavers  once again took the
quick – but stupid – way in.

The Printing Story

In desperation, we gave last months B.B. to a professional
firm to print for us, with the result which is now apparent.  It would appear that these firms are just not
used to dealing with paper plates, and have no idea how to handle them.  However, we have at last got an expert to
look at the printing machine and we hope that our difficulties are now
solved.  What happens to this B.B. will
prove the point one way or the other!

The Do-it-Yourself B.B.?

At the time of writing, it is assumed that the article by
Graham Wilton-Jones giving a description of Tynings Barrow Swallet, has been
included in the February B.B.  Graham
volunteered to type the article on duplicator stencils and get it duplicated
and supply the paper and get it included in the (already printed – after a
fashion by a professional printer!) February issue of the B.B.

There seems no real reason why this cannot be done again if
the need or opportunity arises.  If some
member has a particular piece of ‘stop press’ news, and the means and
opportunity, the present format of the B.B. permits such a late inclusion.  It does, however, make us wonder whether we
ought to go back to numbering each B.B. separately, instead of numbering pages
right through each volume as we do now. Has anybody any thoughts on this one?

Central Heating

As members will know, the committee was actioned by the last
A.G.M. to go ahead and install central heating in the Belfry should this prove
to be feasible.  It would seem, however,
that things (as usual!) are proving more complex in practice than the A.G.M.
imagined.

For example, most of the quotes so far received mean that
the actual cost would be such as to spend ALL the club’s available money.  This is clearly possible, but is it
feasible?  The condition of the Belfry is
giving the committee much cause for concern – if not alarm.  An urgent job must be done on the sleeping
accommodation, and this has already got the ‘go ahead’ from the committee.  There are also plans for improving the
showers and a longer term one for re-siting the kitchen.  Plans for both these schemes are being
prepared for inclusion in the B.B. to give members a chance to air their
opinions.  Certainly, the more urgent
renovations to the Belfry must be carried out. On the other hand, lack of adequate heating is a contributory factor to
the deterioration of the Belfry.  One
answer would be an improvement to the heating but short of the idea of full
central heating.  On the other hand, the
A.G.M. obviously had full central heating in mind.

It’s not such good asking for less talk and more
action.  What would you do under these
circumstances?

N.C.A. Again

The meeting to discuss the reaction of the Southern Council
to the proposed changes to the structure of N.C.A. is due to be held on
Saturday 26th of March.  It is hoped to
include some comment on what seems to be the present situation in next month’s
B.B.

Climbing

Just to remind you that there is a discount available to
B.E.C. current members at Ellis Brigham’s in Whiteladies Rd, Bristol.  There is a rumour that Kevin is saving up to
get married and wishes to sell some of his climbing gear, said to be worth four
figures!   See him at the shop – he’s the
tall blond one.  Seems they’ve got all
that new shop at Welsh Back has without the razzmatazz.

When the better weather is with us there will be a rock
climbing meet at Wintour’s Leap near Chepstow. Good steep, safe limestone with
a good view of the river!

Russell Jenkins
Climbing Sec.

Russell has also sent a short climbing article in, which
will appear in the next B.B.  Tales of
the climbing exploits of members are always acceptable, so if any climbers are
reading this – how about it?

 

Exploring Swildons Hole.

The author of this article, Francis
Webb, died during August 1975, was an associate of Kangy’s and suggested to him
that the club might be interested in reading of Swildons before modern
techniques reduced it to the relatively simple trip of nowadays.

A
trip made on 6 May 1938 – by Francis Webb. The Silver Jubilee of King George V.

When I was an undergraduate I made the acquaintance of a
student named B—.  We used to doze
opposite each other in the University Library and to a casual observer we must
have looked equally devitalized.  I
suppose that’s why we first grew friendly – we recognised in our respective
attitudes the same sort of half-contemptuous, half-guilty protest against the
exertions of our neighbours around the table in the quiet bay where we
sat.  There were earnest young women,
bespectacled and prim, who read and wrote simultaneously with a savage
concentration terrifying to behold.  The
proximity of so much virtue intruding on our repose would cause us to exchange
an occasional troubled glance.  Then B—
would settle himself back in his chair, and relapse into sightless
contemplation of the book propped open before him, never moving his eyes or
turning a page.

Still, this isn’t an entirely fair and complete picture of
my friend.  B— once removed from the
debilitating academic atmosphere of the Library, could be active enough – and
one and one of his chief interests lay in the ‘pot – holing’.  He was the Secretary of a Society which
existed to open up and explore the numerous caves in the neighbouring range of
limestone hills.

One morning I encountered B— in the University Club.  He greeted me with a little more animation
than usual. “Care to come caving this weekend he enquired we’re thinking
of tackling – – – Hole, and we need a party of nine.  Got to have some dull looking clots to carry
the gear, so I thought of you”.  Now
here I was woefully misled at the recollection of a previous excursion with
B—.  It had been very pleasant, the
party had been mixed; we had travelled in a luxury coach; there had been
floodlights and underground lakes, wonderful caverns, impressive stalactites
and a first-rate tea.  Nothing very
strenuous and the whole thing had been undeniably interesting.  So, ignoring the somewhat equivocal
implications in the phrasing of the present invitation, I accepted at once.

When I arrived next day at the hut, situated in a lonely
part of the hills, which formed the headquarters of the Society, I was puzzled
at first by the curious lethargy which seemed to be gripping everyone.  For the most part, fellows, about a dozen of
them, were lying on their backs in the sunshine doing nothing, as only
undergraduates can.  After a bit I began
to wonder when we should make a start. The summer afternoon was slipping away and it would soon be
teatime.  I voiced my curiosity to B—
but he was unconcerned.  “It’s all
right, no hurry, this is an all night show, lie down and rest”.  I lay down and, as I digested this cryptic
information, I began to slowly realise that this expedition, and my previous
experience of caving, were just likely to be very different.

At length, Primus stoves were lighted and Bacon and Eggs
began to sizzle in the pans.  Meanwhile,
from a little shed, which formed an annexe to the main hut, coils of line and a
bulky maze of rope ladders began to appear. These were followed by sledge hammers and crowbars.  My suspicions were rapidly confirmed.  Evidently, ‘carrying the gear’ was going to
form no inconsiderable contribution to the exercise.

We set off about 6-30 pm dressed in filthy old boiler suits
and stout hobnailed boots.  Together with
two other neophytes I had been allotted the humble role of bearer to the leader
of the party.  We four were to go ahead
with most of the tackle to a place obscurely designated as ‘the top of the
forty’ whilst the seasoned campaigners followed on unencumbered and at their
leisure.

We crammed ourselves into a car already loaded with
rucksacks and ropes and bumped for several miles over a rough track to an
isolated farmhouse.  Here our leader
obtained a key from the farmer and. then led us across a field to the bank of
an innocent looking stream.  But there
was one feature peculiar to it.  After a
few hundred yards it suddenly disappeared through a padlocked iron grill into
the ground – and it didn’t seem to reappear anywhere either.

Our leader raised the grill and disappeared into the
hole.  It was the most unimpressive
entrance that could be imagined. Squeezing myself through the narrow opening I could help feeling a
sneaking sense of shame in sinking out of sight down an (extra) ordinary
looking drain.

Inside, the passage was narrow, low and very dark and
wet.  We lighted stubs of candle and
dragging our cumbersome burdens, groped forward, following the bed of the
stream, wading waist deep in water.

Very soon I became familiar with two common experiences
common to caving.  One was the
extricating sensation of hot candle wax spilling onto the back of your hand
when you clutching for your life some knob or cranny in a slippery passage, and
dare not move a muscle to avoid it.  The
other concerned the unbelievable perversity of loosely bundled rope
ladder.  Of all the damnable contrivances
to attempt to convey through narrow, twisting passages, nothing could exceed
the malignancy of this horrible contraption. Lying flat on my back, with the tunnel roof an inch or so above the
face, it was necessary to pass the ladder bit by bit along and over my body,
into the grasp of the man ahead.  I had
just pushed the leading end beyond my head when I found my arms and hands locked
immovably.  Meanwhile the ladder travelled
slowly over my upturned face, each rung hooking me in turn underneath the nose,
until it was jerked free by an extra sharp wrench which banged the back of my
head against the floor, clunk-clunk-clunk for forty interminable feet.

Of course, we were not always in such cramped
situations.  Sometimes we passed through
large and echoing caverns, the sombre, moisture stained walls reaching
endlessly up into the darkness.  Still
dragging our loads we climbed along slippery ridges and slopes following the
course of the water through a maze of crevices and fissures.  Occasionally we climbed down a vertical rock
face with only the faint gleam of our leaders candle at the bottom to guide us
through the darkness.  Each time we came
to a particularly awkward place, I began to hate my rucksack and the rope
ladder with increasing force.  Sometimes
I seemed jammed beyond all hope of release, then being hung like a worm on a
fish hook.  I would succeed at last in
extricating myself and to hurry after the flicker of my companion’s candle
light, before fading into the distance

I had just become used to going this way when trouble
occurred.  I overhauled the other three
who were holding a council.  One of my
fellow bearers, slipping on a sharp rock, had jammed his leg on a crevice and
his knee was badly damaged and perhaps broken. Luckily, our leader was a doctor he decided that we would go on with the
kit to the appointed rendezvous and then return to get the injured man to the
surface.  So leaving the injured securely
anchored to the rock with an array of candles for company, we continued along a
low and narrow tunnel with the water still swirling waist high around us.  As we progressed, labouring under our
burdens, suddenly the roof sloped to the surface of the water, barring our
way.  Above the bubbling gurgle of the
water which disappeared though its outlet I seemed to feel rather than hearing
a dull reverberating roar.  Here I was
instructed to make myself comfortable whist the others returned to the scene of
the accident and the injured man.

For the first hour, the novelty of my situation was
sufficient to outweigh the disagreeable aspects but after a while, sitting in
the rushing water, I began to feel cold.

By bracing my back against one wall of the passage, and my
feet against the other, I managed to raise myself partly out of the stream but
even so I wasn’t very comfortable.  Then
I began to think of the weight of rock above my head.  Somewhere, perhaps miles above my head was
sunshine and open air but all I could see was the dripping black roof of the
tunnel, toothed with stalactites like the mouth of some dreadful prehistoric
monster I reflected that I could not possibly find my way back alone through the
labyrinth of passages and caverns through which we had traversed.  My thoughts were rather depressing and I
hoped that my friends would not forget to come and collect me.  I decided to stop thinking so and amused
myself by singing all the most flippant songs I knew.  Pretty soon, that got to be boring also but I
found that a new interest became most absorbing – this was in watching my
candle stub grow rapidly shorter and I watched with dreadful fascination it’s
dwindling – I was going to miss that friendly flicker when it eventually went
out.  At length it gave its last glimmer
and I was alone in the darkness.  Not
quite alone, it seemed however, for I began to be aware of a curious almost
imperceptible flutter in the air around me, something that suggested the
darting flight of a bird, but softer, more ethereal.  I’m glad that I didn’t know then that some
caves are often inhabited by myriads of bats, I wasn’t really sure at the time
whether anything was there or not; it just felt like something flitting past my
head now and again.  I thought that it
was time that I pulled myself together or I might begin seeing things too and
after all there wasn’t anything to really worry about.  Old B— and the rest would be along any time
now and they would laugh like hell to see me clawing the wall and
gibbering.  But in spite of my best
efforts I must have looked pretty wan when at last a distant gleam heralded the
arrival of my friends.

B— saw no reason for the obvious pleasure with which I
greeted him.  He enquired briefly whether
we had rigged the ladder for the descent of the 40 foot and it was borne in on
me that the night was yet young and there was plenty more caving in store for
me before we finished.

We duck through here said B– indicating the hole through which
the stream disappeared.  “Take a
deep breath and don’t get stuck.  Give me
time to get my light going again when I’m through then feed the ladder through
to me.  When that’s through you can
follow”.  I swallowed down most of my
insides and took a very deep breath indeed. I suppose that the part of the tunnel completely sealed by water could
not have been more than a few feet long but to me it seemed as long as
eternity.  I was determined to obey to
the letter B’s injunction about not getting stuck.  No eel could have surpassed my performance in
getting through that hole and as I emerged on the other side I remembered
thinking ‘My God, to get home I’ve got to get back through there!  I found myself clinging to B— and perched
on a sloping ledge over which a tidy sized river was disappearing into
bottomless space – the cause of that curious reverberation which I had
previously noted was now apparent.  The
noise was deafening.  Our candle threw
sparkles of iridescence on the mist of spray rising from the gulf.

B— and the old hands got busy with the rope ladder.  I realised that it was proposed to descend
the fall.  When my turn came I wasn’t
clear headed enough to wait for full instructions though I understood vaguely
that there was a twelve foot deep whirlpool below the fall and that the
technique was to swing on the end rung of the ladder like a pendulum, letting
go at the right moment so as to land at the edge rather than in the centre of
the pool.  But the full force of the
water on my head and its removal of the candle from my grasp, half stunning me
and completely blinding my vision so confused my already partly turned wits so
that I could only cling like a clam to the ladder, breathing in ragged sobbing
gasps that choked me with water swallowed and inhaled.  Somehow I found myself gripping the bottom
rung swaying slowly in and out, in and out of the full strength of the torrent
as I tried to pluck up the courage to let go and fling myself to the edge of
the pool.  I lingered so long on the
bottom rung that at last a peaceful end in the depths of the pool began to
appear preferable to further delay so I jumped and landed on all fours in a
relatively shallow place from whence I was hauled by those who had descended
before me.

After that, a mere twenty foot waterfall later on in our
course seemed tame.  Even a 90 foot rope
descent, the rope running in a sort of inverted parabola over inky chasms and
sabre toothed pinnacles of rock failed to dull the vivid impression left on me
by the first waterfall.  I could not help
thinking that climbing up it again was likely to be just as impressive as the
descent and in this I was not mistaken.

When we arrived at the extreme point of penetration into
this particular cave, my powers of sensation were pretty well used up.  I can remember eyeing the long bamboo rod
which had been used in an attempt by a previous party to blast a way onwards
with explosives.  I wondered what it had
been like in getting them down here. Portions of a home-made diving apparatus which had been employed in an
effort to penetrate further underwater moved in me no more than a heartfelt
thankfulness that certain essentials had had to be taken to the surface for
repair, leaving the outfit temporarily unsuitable for use.

At last we started back. Once or twice I found myself at the rear of the party with my candle
stub accidentally extinguished with no dry matches.  I resolved that I should be extremely active
in avoiding this particular nightmare in the future, and hastened to catch up
with B—, and so it was that we arrived within the sound of the 40 foot fall
far in advance of the rest of the party.

Now B— was proud of his lamp – it was a small acetylene
affair with a naked flame like a lizard’s tongue; the sort of thing that miners
wear in their caps in which are free from firedamp.  He turned it up until the flame was nearly a
foot long.  With this he was convinced
that he could climb up through the fall and that it would stay alight despite
the torrent beating on it.  He proposed
that instead of waiting at the foot of the fall, we should surprise our friends
by waiting for them at the top. Personally, any delay would have been acceptable but I was in no state
to resist argument and B– prepared for immediate ascent.

He explained that he would take a rope with him to serve as
a communication        cord and
lifeline.  When he signalled by jerking
the line I was to tie it round myself and follow him up.  Without further delay he disappeared up the
ladder.  As soon as I was alone I began
to hate the idea of swinging again on the ladder and the whirlpool seemed to be
making sucking noises with a sort of anticipatory relish – but at last the
ladder ceased swaying – B— must have arrived at the top.

I grasped the life line secured to the bottom rung and
hauled it back to where I was standing. With numb fingers I began to fumble the line into a bowline round my
waist muttering the Boy Scout recipe for rabbits coming up out of the hole and
round the tree, which is supposed to produce the requisite loop.  But try as I might my bowline just wouldn’t
come out right.  In the middle of all
this preparation I became aware of a tremendous bellowing from above.  This was accompanied by fierce jerks on the
line, which slipped from my un-nerved hands. The noise of the fall effectively drowned the sense of B—‘s shouts but
guiltily conscious of my inabilities I interpreted that as shouts of impatience
at my delay. So, abandoning any discretion and the struggle with the bowline I
stepped onto the bottom rung and launched myself into the torrent.

My candle put out in an instant and at the same moment the
icy stream hit my head with a sledge hammer force driving the breath from my
lungs and forcing my head down between my shoulders.  My knees bent beneath the pressure from above
until my arms were at full stretch, the water tore at the suspended        frame, stinging face, eyes and hands and
battering my bruised senses to confusion. In the overwhelming tumult, rational thought was impossible, all the
same I became aware of my feet stumbling on the rungs as I began to clamber
painfully upwards.

Immediately the loop of the lifeline fell from my waist to
my knees and then slipped further to my ankles. For some reason B— was not taking in the slack as I mounted.  I toiled on, trying at each rung to step out
of the loop.  Suddenly, one of my feet
missed the rung and I clawed desperately with the free leg, waving it madly
above the drop.  The ladder, free from my
distributed weight, was pushed askew by the thrust on one leg and no longer
hung vertically but made sickening lunges in all directions, threatening at any
moment to hurl me off altogether.  All
this while, B— continued his unintelligible roaring from above.  As I swung giddily in the middle of the
torrent, what I feared most suddenly occurred. My convulsive struggling caused my other foot to slip from the ladder
and I was left dangling by my arms alone. Try as I might I was unable to locate the ladder again with my toes.      It
was obvious that I could not last long like this and I decided that the last
breath in my body should be devoted to communicating my difficulty to
B—.   With the screech of a banshee I
informed him of my predicament.  His
reply was an immediate hauling on the lifeline which was well and truly tangled
around my ankles.  Slowly but
relentlessly I found myself being pulled upside down, my hands gripping the
sides of the ladder in a frenzy- and my heels disappearing above my head in the
grip of that ghastly loop.  Once more I
outlined the position of my affairs to B— in a vocal record which surely must
have created a record.  Mercifully, he
heard me and stopped pulling.  The sheer
relief at being up the right way seemed heavenly, it gave me strength for one
last effort and kicking myself free from the loop of line I wrapped myself
round the ladder and eventually managed to get one foot on one side of it and
the other on the other side.  This is
held to be the safest way I now know but here there was a particular snag, the
top yard or so of the ladder lay over a projecting bulge of rock, the rungs
tight against its face so I was forced to risk again taking one foot off the
rungs before I could drag myself to safety on the ledge.

I was greeted by an irate B—.  “You damned fool, why didn’t you wait at
the bottom?  I shouted to tell you that
my lamp had gone out”.

Neither of us had any dry matches so we crouched on the
ledge in total darkness, listening to the fall of water, our teeth rattling
with cold and, in my case, with ill repressed emotion, until the rest of the
party came up to join us.

The remainder of the journey was relatively uneventful.  Emerging at last through the very ordinary
grill I found the pale stars of a summer dawn above my head but I was not
conscious of any sublime or elevated feelings. I was just immensely glad to throw away the remains of my last candle
stub.  We had been underground, in icy
water off and on, for nearly ten hours. Lying in a heap of straw in the farmer’s barn, warming our numbed bodies
with rum, we treated the affair with a nonchalance which I found at first a
little unnatural.  But gradually the
whole experience began to fall into a more rational focus and when viewed
through the tawny mellowness of a tilted rum bottle it began to seem a pretty
good show after all.

 

Lead Mining Methods of Mendip and Derbyshire

For a minority of Mendip Folk, mineral mining conjures up
visions of great vaults and vast networks of passages having teams and teams of
miners hewing their existence out of the living rock.  This is, of course, not an accurate picture
and the miners endured, in their efforts to eke out a living, many dangers
including those of gas, collapse and inundation.

Of the three, collapse was perhaps the easiest to deal with
as almost all of the passages were in solid limestone or toadstone, so it was
when the “old man” was driving through shale that he was troubled by
collapse problems.  These were mainly
overcome by the construction of lined shafts and arched adits or levels.  However, the shale also presented the problem
of Gas.

Fire Damp (CH4) only found in mineral mines when shale or
the like is exposed and the gas, when able to collect in rock crevices to mix
with four to twelve times its volume of air, is potentially lethal.  The effect of its ignition could be to
produce a sheet of flame which would seal the upper part of the mine passages
and in the wake of the explosion would come the Choke Damp (carbonic ash
residue) which being heavier than air would soon overcome and suffocate any
survivors of the explosion.  Another gas
hazard could arise from the imperfect combustion of the Fire Damp, Carbon
Monoxide (White Damp) was equally deadly and even if it did not kill on the
spot it had a more or less permanent effect on the inhaler as it was most
difficult to expel from the body. Explosions were not confined to being caused by gas though, the
occurrence of ‘Slickensides’ or ‘Cracking Holes’ or ‘Looking Glass’ (limestone
or sometimes lead ore with a ribbed and polished surface) sometimes caused
explosions of incredible violence due to stress and strain forces building up
in them.  These occurrences were
particularly common in the Eyam district of Derbyshire where there are records
of many miners being killed in such explosions.

The main problem countrywide encountered by the Miner was
how to drain the workings.  In Derbyshire
there was usually a simple solution by driving an adit through to the nearest
valley and so empty the water from the workings there.  Sometimes, where two or more mines were
working in close proximity a joint effort was made to effect drainage.

Passages below this level were pumped out and several
methods used are worthy of note.  The
Mendip miners hampered by the absence of deep valleys, hauled out the water in
nine gallon leather buckets and the miners would make use of local swallow
holes both for drainage purposes and also for spoil dumps.

One of the early pump methods in use was the Archimedes
screw which was generally produced by the use of a hollow log containing a
wooden corkscrew inside which when turned would raise a small amount of
water.  However, if it was inclined at
too steep an angle the water would drain out so the more efficient Rag and
Chain type pump was used.

The Rag and Chain was used extensively in the early 17th
Century and through to the mid 19th Century. It consisted of an endless chain passed through a hollow log which was
looped and turned by a spiked wheel of 2 to 3 feet diameter.  At intervals on the chain were mounted leather
bags filled with horse hair or rags and these fitted closely inside the log
pipe.  When the log was immersed in the
water pumping was effected by turning the wheel and trapping water in the pipe
and transferring it to the top.  This was
the first pump capable of moving large volumes of water and sludge but its
operation was exhausting to those driving it. The next generation of pumps were those of the steam age such as the
Newcomen ‘atmospheric’ engine and the Bolton and Watt beam engines.

But that’s another story

 

The Festering Column

by “Plagiarist”

Following on in the tradition of ‘Wig’ and his ‘Round and
About’ notes, one of our local Mendippers has, after much nagging from the
production team, taken up his pen with the intention of giving us a regular
series of news and in some cases gossip.

1.                  The recent incredible burst of enthusiasm on
Mendip has seen the production of two new guide books as well as some major
cave extensions

Barrington and Stanton have almost completed their revised edition ‘Caves of
Mendip” and publication is anticipated in late spring.

Tony Knibbs and ‘Wig’ will soon be issuing their new book (during March) which
is to be titled “Mendip Underground”. The book is not intended to either supplant or to be a competitor to
Caves of Mendip but will be a more detailed work carrying detailed descriptions
of caves which the authors opinion, ‘significant’.  The descriptions are excellent and many
consultants have been called in to give information on normally inaccessible
cave passage (e.g. Swildons 10 to 12). It is rumoured that the information contained is so complete that it
will no longer be necessary to actually visit a cave to be able to discuss it
authortively – clearly this will be the best thing to hit caving since N.C.A.

2.                  Tynings Swallet has finally yielded some of its
secrets to the determined onslaught mounted against it by the Tynings Institute
for Troglodyte Studies (a group of select individuals dedicated to muddy digs
and abbreviations).  So far the swallet
has revealed 3,000 feet of fine passage of the shredded neoprene variety.  Access at present is not too easy and potential
sightseers/explorers should contact Martin Bishop or Snab.

3.                  Fault Chamber (Swildons) has produced a further
250 feet of passage found by the Portsmouth Poly Brigade – these students get
everywhere don’t they.  Jubilee Turn
(Swildons still) just after sump 4 is proving interesting and chemical
hammering should eventually result in a breakthrough.

4.                  Iran ’77 expedition has now 19 fully (?)
committed members and up to the present has received over £1,000 in grants and
donations.  There are prospects that a
farewell barrel and drinking contest before the ‘off’ on August 1st.

5.                  The note for this session – Don’t be put off by
the recent collapse in the barrows. Entry has not been prevented.

 

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17


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

Across (Passages)

5. Where the Marquis keeps his
money near the U.B.S.S. hut?  (4,7)
6. Staid mine workings. (4)
9. After young sheep shelter right for Mendip caves. (4)
10. C.B. Chamber. (4)
11. Additional in next rawlbolt. (5)
12. There are lots of this in some caves. (4)
13. Broken off formation? (4)
14. Infill, perhaps. (5)
17. Still stal off this cave formation. (7,4)

Down (Pitches)

1. Untrue underfoot in some
caves?  (5,6)
2. The hand the editor employed. (4)
3. Found in a cave, a stream – or associated with water on Mendip. (4)
4. Indent a clino – but still obtained what I wanted from it! (11)
6. St. Cuthbert’s block. (5)
7. Bury underground between. (5)
8. Vandal’s verb? (5)
15. G.B. has a gallery for one of them. (4)
16. All this when full of its last three quarters. (4)

Solution to No. 72


 

D


 

S


 

S


 

I


 

B


 

R

U

S

T


 

T

U

N

N

E

L


 

G


 

A


 

E


 

L


 

L


 

H

O

L

L

O

W

F

I

E

L

D


 

U


 

A


 

S


 

M


 


 


 

S

T

U

C

K


 

H

E

R

B

Y


 


 


 

T


 

T


 

S


 

A


 

S

E

D

I

M

E

N

T

A

R

Y


 

A


 

T


 

N


 

O


 

R


 

A

S

C

E

N

T


 

N

O

O

N


 

Y


 

S


 

S


 

E


 

W


 

 

Club Headquarters

The Belfry, Wells Rd, Priddy, Wells, Somerset.  Telephone WELLS 72126

Club Committee

Chairman          S.J.
Collins

Minutes Sec      M.
Wheadon

Members           C. Batstone, P. Christie, J. Dukes,
R. Jenkins T. Large, Barry Wilton, G. Wilton-Jones.

Officers Of The Club

Honorary Secretary             M.
WHEADON, 91 The Oval, Englishcoombe, Bath. Tel : BATH 713646

Honorary Treasurer             B.
WILTON, ‘Valley View’, Venus Lane, Clutton, Nr. Bristol. Tele : TEMPLE CLOUD
52072

Caving Secretary                TIM
LARGE, 15 Kippax Avenue, Wells, Somerset

Climbing Secretary             R.
JENKINS, 10 Amberley Close, Downend, Bristol.

Hut Warden                        C.
BATSTONE, 8 Prospect Place, Bathford, Bath..

Belfry Engineer                   J.
DUKES, 4 Springfield Crescent, Southampton. SO1 6LE  Tele : (0703) 774649

Tacklemaster                     G.
WILTON-JONES, ‘Ilenea’, Stonefield Road. Nap Hill, High Wycombe, Bucks. Tele :
(024) 024 3534

B.B. Editor                         S.J.
COLLINS, Lavender Cottage, Bishops Sutton, Nr. Bristol.  Tel : CHEW MAGNA 2915

Publications Editor              C.
HOWELL, 131 Sandon Road, Edgebaston, Birmingham 17.  Tele : (021) 429 5549

B.B. Postal                        BRENDA
WILTON  Address as for Barry

 

The views expressed by contributors to the Belfry Bulletin,
including those of club officers, are not necessarily the views of the
committee of the Bristol Exploration Club or the Editor, unless so stated.  The Editor cannot guarantee that the accuracy
of information contained in the contributed matter, as it cannot normally be
checked in the time at his disposal.

 

© 2024 Bristol Exploration Club Ltd

registered in England and Wales as a co-operative society under the Co-operative and Community Benefit Societies Act 2014, registered no. 4934.

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