You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths.
Psalm 88 v6
0830 The sky has turned overcast as I leave Broad Croft House B and B, replete from the massive farmhouse breakfast - homemade bread! The plan today is to cycle up onto Ingleborough Common to Gaping Gill pothole, where I happen to know the Bradford Caving Club has set up a winch this week to allow the public to descend the 100m or so down to the floor of the cave – one of the largest in Great Britain.
0930 My route takes me a few miles along the valley of the Ribble before turning West and ascending steeply up a bridleway. It is tough going but the view is spectacular, the limestone here being exposed in vast, grey outcrops and pavements. The ride eventually levels out and goes well until ....
0950 ...Disaster. My navigational skills have let me down and I have ended up in a deep gully strewn with boulders. On a wetter day this would be streaming with water but this Spring is completely dry. Rather than going back I decide to do a bit of cyclo-cross and, puffing and blowing, heave the bike up the gully.
1020 Stopping at the top for a rest, I exchange greetings with walkers coming up from Clapham village also on their way to the Gill. I wonder how long the queue to go down the gill will be? I finally get within striking distance of the Gill but there is a high dry stone wall insurmountable with a bike so I lock it to a fence post and do the last few yards on foot.
1030 Gaping Gill is a hive of activity at the surface, with green-overalled and behelmeted caving folk milling around piles of equipment, tents and rucksacks. The Gill itself is in a depression in the ground, where the beck disappears down a wide hole in the ground – hence ‘gaping’ I suppose. The caving club have dammed and diverted most of the flow and rigged up a Heath Robinson winch and platform affair in the mouth over which is suspended a boatswain’s chair. The putta putta of a two-stroke engine provides the driving force that lowers and raises the chair thus a steady stream of would-be explorers descends into the depths. I notice with some trepidation that all those who come back are soaking wet!
Clambering down to a small tent I give £10 to a gruff, kilted Scotsman and in return receive a dog tag with a number on it. I discover that the seeming chaos is actually a well organised affair with safety in mind and a strict queuing system which means that you go down in the order you arrive.
If you are fashion conscious then caving is not for you, because the plastic green overalls and unsexy white hard hats are de rigueur. Eventually it is my turn and I climb down a short ladder to the platform, peering as I do so into the black, algae-encrusted maw where the beck tumbles into the nothingness and from which a constant mist rises up like breath. The winch operator tells me cheerfully to ‘keep everything in’ as he locks me into the chair - I hope he is referring to my arms and legs and not my breakfast! With a blast of revs on the motor I am on my way down. The surface noises fade as quickly as the daylight, and the aperture down which I am descending becomes narrower and narrower until it suddenly widens out and I find myself in the underground cavern. Far below me, but approaching rapidly, I can just make out another winch man - it’s my friend the kilted Scot who seems to have found his way down while I was otherwise occupied.
Struggling out of the boatswain’s chair, I take a few moments to get used to the dark and then have a good look around. It is a remarkable, natural cathedral-sized space, strewn about with rocks. Water tumbles down the hole I have just come and from a couple of ‘rat-holes’ - small fissures in the side of the cave – and crashes onto the floor with a splash that reverberates around the cavern. The fine mist is everywhere, explaining why everyone gets wet.
For about an hour I have a good root around the main chamber. There are tantalising passages leading off, but I don’t stray too far. I can see why this dramatic system is a favourite with the caving fraternity but all too soon it is time to strap into the chair and make my way back to the surface, hand back my dog tag and make my way to the bike.
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The rest of the day is a leisurely walk/cycle around this part of the dales, winding up back at Horton-in-Ribblesdale to catch the train to Carlisle and thence to Penrith. I meet a couple of hard-core cyclists who gaily talk about 120 mile day rides – I just nod and silently consider that my 12 miles was tiring enough. My next b and b is a few miles West of Penrith and, thanks to a few wrong turnings, the ride is a lot longer than it should be so I’m quite tired when I arrive. The overcast day has turned into a fine evening and the young couple who run the guest house make me a cup of tea, store my bike in their shed and show me up to my room where I crash out. Looking out of my window towards the West, there is a view of tomorrow’s objective - the peak of Blencathra whose summit, shadowed and shrouded in cloud made dark by the dusk, looks as forbidding as any Fell hereabouts.
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