Penyghent
Pot.
Reading
through some of the literature of the Red Rose from the days when woolens and a
boiler suit were the standard uniform of cavers and a reliable lamp was fueled
by a “bell-battery” I chanced upon some crumbling articles typed on toilet
paper. These, and others, thankfully typed on foolscap this time were by Jim
Eyre and it tells of siege tactics on Penyghent Pot while camping by the
entrance to ensure an early start and presumably facilitate the massive
logistics of pre electron ladder caving equipment.
These and
other stories about interminable rescues and the incapacitating “Fiery-Jack”
tended to paint a picture of the finest stream passage in the country (arguably)
as being somewhat bleak.. I was however reassured by my loving mother who
stated, “It’s got a thousand foot crawl to start with and used to kill people
off when I was caving, all the time!” Thanks Mum! Hearing all this set me off
thinking of excuses to use when Dave Crellin would ask if I was looking forward
to it.
Excuse One: “I haven’t got a wetsuit!”
Answer: “Al hasn’t and you don’t really
need one, anyway I thought you said in the pub you were ‘ard?”
Excuse
Two: “I’ve got school in the
morning, exams in a month.”
Answer: “Well
I have to be up by four on Monday morning”
Excuse
Three: “It’s no good my SRT kits at
home.”
Answer: “Here
have Anne’s, she is only going down White Scar.”
My apathy
soon waned as several others tagged onto our group at Bernies and some were old
duffers, I couldn’t be out classed by old duffers! We were galvanised for
action!
Brackenbottom was it’s usual pleasant place, “No Parking, Absolutely NO
PARKING!”. The obligatory bimbling getting changed as Bob Stevens distributed
tackle to all and sundry and the rest of us argued which hole in the wall
covered by moss to hide the car keys in. Dave was otherwise occupied.
The
shallow shakehole entrance was eventually found and we wallowed in a good bimbling
session, fags extinguished, willies out and bladders emptied then off we shot
through the famous crawl. Because of the dry weather it did not seem to be that
bad, only one point caused me to crawl flat out however I am a skinny
“whippersnapper”. Quite soon the clean washed and fossil filled rock grew less
wide and more higher and a stooping streamway appeared, this was getting to be
more like the Penyghent Pot in the guidebook. We rigged the ladder to the
“Budgie bar” Jammed across the top of the pitch providing an excellent hang
between the twin waterfalls, here the fun began and the magnificent square
streamway started. The water was rarely more than ankle deep and was easy going
throughout to the second pitch where we belayed the ladder to a red-bolt.
The third soon followed after which the rift pitches started. We abseiled down
or, the rope which had been left in-situ by ULSA while they had explored their
new extensions, “Gloom Doom Passage, Living Dead series”, “Friday 13th series”,
“Cholera Canal” etc....
A howling
gale formed at the bottom of the pitch as the streamway fell a hundred odd feet
creating a wind tunnel of spray, no place for sensible cavers’ The rest of the
rift pitches already had ladders on them so the going was swift, Bob and I
waited in a large chamber before Myers Leap for the others to catch up, twenty
minutes later we got fed up and left. Myers Leap brought us to the main stream
passage where Hunt Pot and Penyghent Pot waters converge culminating in
excellent walking streamway in oppressive black limestone with deviously placed
pools to soak the unwary.
At Eyrie
Pot we met one lad from ULSA who was rigging up some dubious belays, I thought
he might show some surprise at seeing us but he just chatted with us in a
matter-of-fact way about which “loose-ends” they were tying up. Niagara was
rigged by a stout(?) piece of hawser laid hemp as sound as your average clothes
line and treated with as much respect, below this was a spray lashed rift and
walking passage after which the sump soon appeared black, deep and horrible as
most sumps do. Trying to see the bottom was like trying to look through a pint
of my home—brew and it smelt just as bad.
On our way
back we met the rest of the Al and Dave contingent with another unknown face
from Derbyshire (Alastair). After a Mars bar and an ‘arry rag stop while
waiting for the others to return from the sump we set off out meeting the
others at
With hardly any tackle the return was made without incident where a sunny but
blustery moorland awaited us. With Penyghent looming over us we walked back to
the car and later the Crown where we mused on a satisfying days trip over beer
and crisps.
Paul
Wilkinson,
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