19th August 2026 - A McKenzie adventure: part II

Tony pulling it out of the bag again taking us on a trip to Fisherplace gill. 

18th August 2026 - A McKenzie adventure: part I

An absolutely cracking day out to Scale force, courtesy of Tony. 

16th August 2026 - Well met at Hensler's

With a loud crack the first staple, from my brand new high powered staple gun, pierced the wood of the chair frame. My initial foray into upholstery then stopped, almost as soon as it had begun, with a phonecall from Julie. She explained that with AJ, they'd set off on a Hensler's themed trip around the Gaping gill system. They'd rigged Hensler's pot, set off down Wet Hensler's but after 15 minutes of crawling through cold water had become unsure of the way on and so had retraced their route. After half an hour, in energy sapping cold, they'd headed straight to the main chamber and been whisked to the surface by the winch. This left their SRT kit at the bottom of Hensler's High aven and Hensler's lot rigged. Would I like to join a trip to recover their kits and derig the pot? After being beasted by my wife on a brutal, but beautiful, run around Buttermere I wasn't feeling my strongest but, with another chance to descend Dihedral, I was definitely up for it.

Parking the car I said to Julie that it was going to be slow walk up to the gill. She was feeling pretty battered from the previous day too so we began our slow trudge up onto the moor. At the pot we met AJ and began to put some flesh on the bones of the plan. AJ and Julie were to get the winch down while Max, who was also joining us, and I would head down Dihederal and meet them at the bottom. Unfortunately, with public winching taking place, we couldn't use the pitch so Max and I headed to Marilyn, planning to meet the other pair at the foot of Hensler's aven.

At the bottom of the Marilyn pitches, Max found the krab attahed to his Stop would't open. A little gentle tapping, a little WD40 saliva, but it wasn't budging. Only opening his central maillon would allow it to be removed. We dropped down into the streamway and the junction with the master cave. At this point I know the turn for Hensler's aven is either a little way up or down stream, but can never remember which, so downstream we headed. Realising fairly quickly it was the wrong way, we u- turned and soon found the step up into the required passage, just upstream of where we had initially been.

Hearing other people ahead I wondered if it was the pair we'd been following down Marilyn but no, it was AJ having a good stomp down the passage having come from the main chamber via Mud hall and Mud Hensler's. It would have been tricky to time both our arrivals any better. At the bottom of High Hensler's (please have a listen to this incredible recording of Eric Hensler describing the measurement of its height) another attempt was made on opening Max's krab. While he pulled one way on it, AJ pulled the other and I tried turning the lock on the gate. Nothing, it wasn't for budging. 

Having heard of the joys ahead in Hensler's pot, Max headed for Small Mammal via Mud Hensler's and I began my way up the pitch. I appreciated a bit of a lie down at the top before, all too soon, Julie joined me and I moved on to Burnley pitch. With having had a bit of a 'mare at the pitch head when I was last here with Mike, I opted for a different tactic, ignored the sling which had pulled my into the vice of the rift, and went for a direct belly flop onto the ledge on the right, much easier. By the time I'd my SRT kit off for the struggle's to come, Julie was at the bottom of the pitch and I could haul up the first bag. All reunited, I began my mental and physical battle with the tackle sack. By the time we reached the short climb up into the rift a judge would probably have declared a draw between us. Sacks though are in it for the long game and my limited reserves were already being eaten into.

AJ passed the sack up to me and I tried pushing it ahead of me in the rift, it immediately pulled a blocking move from its repertoire and I was left with no choice but to vary my attack. Clipped to my belt and dragging now, I tried once more. Initially I thought this was going to work, despite it jamming at every move, AJ was behind me to release it and we slowly udged forward. Due to the length of the tether though, the bag lay on my lower leg, my only source of forward propulsion and we ground to a halt again. I called a time out. Laying in the rift I could hear AJ behind me enacting plan C. Shortly he told me to start moving again, I was free, barely able to feel the rope he'd tied round my ankle. At the first widening I was able to turn, look my nemesis squarely in the eye and haul. The knock out blow had been delivered. Any last, futile, resistance was soon countered by a quick flick from AJ and I knew we'd be through the rift.

While there's still a lot of crawling to go, there's nothing as snug, and I began to really enjoy the caving. AJ trucked on with the first bag, while I began to fill the second one for Julie. The plan was that I'd then put the final rope in the smaller, empty bag I'd been carrying my SRT kit in. Almost before we knew it though the duck appeared and was past and the bottom of the entrance ladder visible, our keeping up with which pitch we were on having gone completely to pot. I don't know if it's due to the extended warm weather we've been having, but the moor smelled particularly sweat as I exited the drum and stepped down onto living plants once more. The tackle sacks must have an agreement with the tussocks and they put up a valiant rearguard action but, enlivened by the sunlight, nothing was going to stop us now. Earlier Julie had suggested going on a second trip but there was absolutely no chance of that, I was spent.

At the sink hole life was bustling on, members of the public heading to or from the winch and club members on their way to duties or enjoying a cuppa. Max had made it safely out too and we decided on a working brew while washing the ropes in Fell beck, energised by some quality cake. My face also had a good scrub before getting changed for the walk vack down the fell. Unfortunately for Julie I'd left my dry t- shirt in the car so only had my very chic, new AV fleece vest to wear. Fortunately we only met a solitary dog walker on the way down and her 11 year old dog was much more interested in ear scritches than what dapper Yorkshire cavers are wearing these days.

13th August 2026 - The height (and depth) of sophistimication

Comfortably ensconsed in The Barn after our Black Shiver trip I was introduced to the delights of a chai latte by Julie. Unlike our usual pints this is so sophisticated they actually bring it to you at your table. Fantastically, on meeting up for this trip, she produced a whole tub of the miraculous powder for me from a highly exclusive European purveyor of fine victuals. If the quality of this blog entry is cosiderably higher than usual, it will be entirely due to my sipping of this admirable beverage as I compose it.

Once again a caving club, this time our own - the Craven, is in residence at Gaping gill. Obviously the main reason for these meets is the winch down to, and up from, the main chamber. For the visiting caver though the main attraction is that a number of the other entrances are rigged. This allows tackle free caving which is about as good as it gets, you can just choose a pair of entrances and make your way between them, unencumbered by weighty bags. From the list of rigged entrances we chose to head down dihedral, a route not available when the winch is running, and then return up Wade's entrance of Flood. 

We're not sure if it's shorter, less climb or less steep but there's something very pleasant about the walk up from Newby rather than Clapham. At the top of the hill there's a grand view of the Gaping gill shake hole and, at this time of year, the temporary camp spreading upstream from the mouth of the pot. Standing above the camp, resembling a Victorian folly, the light green canvas of the toilet tent reflecting the unrelenting sun, clearly marking our destination.

There was calm activity down in the shake hole and we both wandered over to chat with people we knew. Unfortunately I didn't realise Ian was working at the time with a journalist  - sorry Ian. We changed and signed in on the board and headed down towards the winch. Huge thanks to Paul and the young lady, sorry I don't know your name, who directed us to the Jib tunnel entrance saving us the mortification of wandering aimlessly under the watchful gaze of the numerous onlookers. Thanks too to Paul for his sage advice on getting out of Flood, "Just follow the water", worked a treat.

We ducked under the wooden pole with its warning sign, declaring a deep hole beyond, and clipped into the traverse line. At the pitch I was blown away. You don't normally get weather in a cave but here I was looking down on a cloud of sunlit mist. As the descent continued poor Julie was hit by an increasingly superlative ridden barrage of commentry. This is an incredible pitch. At the rebelay ledge I shouted up, "rope free", and quickly readied my camera. Apologies to Nick who was following us down for my photo faff.

Julie enjoying the first pitch of Dihedral route

Nearing the rebelay ledge

After what had seemed a long first pitch I was convinced we must be close to the chamber floor, but at the next rebelay I realised we were probably only half way down. The chamber bathed in both natural and flood light a truely awesome sight.

Almost on the floor of main chamber

The scramble up at the end of the chamber was helped by both the in situ lighting and handline at its top we both paused to take in the view again before disappearing along the heavily draughting tunnel that was our way on. Familiar landmarks passed we entered the, awkward for me, last section of passage to South East pot. I hardly ever get this bit right and, as ever, turned right too early meaning a slight descent onto, and longer traverse of, South East. At the low point, where the passage we should have taken emerges, a rope hung from the gloom above. I clipped in, held my breath, and swung out, the vastness below me now matching that above.

As I climbed what I thought was the top of the pitch caught my torch beam, but no it was just a deviation, the pitch continuing to soar above. Julie's been experimenting with her SRT rig and was hoping for simple pitch heads while she fine tunes it. In Flood they just couldn't be any better, high anchors allowing a straightforward step off the rope onto wide ledges.

Returning up the Flood pitches

All too soon daylight was visible and Julie let out an audible sigh. This is a magnificent route into the Gaping gill system and was over far too soon. Emerging jnto daylight it's always nice to find a sign post declaring that you are where you thought you should be, and just a short walk back to our start point.

Flood (Wade's) entrance

Normally there's still the walk off the moor before we can treat ourselves to a well deserved pint, but on this occasion I wasn't even out of my suit before an impromptu barman at the Trenchfoot Arms served us our drinks. A careful wipe with the hand of the plastic mugs they were served in fitting perfectly with my newly discovered sophisticated lifestyle. It would be far too easy to while away an evening with good company here. As it was we had to pack up our bags and wander back across the moor, taking in the vista of peaks in Lancashire, Yorkshire and Cumbria, after a truly quality trip.

9th August 2026 - Black Shiver: Summer Edition

Mention Black Shiver and many people's mind will immediately be drawn to an image of a glistening sweep of neve, a gully line rising from the limestone bench at Ingleborough's foot, almost to its summit cairn. Alas, North Yorkshire's premier winter route is an ephemeral line, rarely forming due to requiring very specific meteological conditions. Another Black Shiver also commences from the limestone bench and also requires specific weather to contemplate. Unlike its sibling, the Gully, Black Shiver Pot is not a fleeting route, its lines hewn from the very rock of the mountain, its delights not visible for miles around but hidden from view below the moor.

Topping out from Black Shiver Gully, one of Yorkshire's finest winter lines

Enjoying a post trip pint in the beer garden of Ingleton's Wheatsheaf hotel, almost in the shadow of Ingleborough, Mike suggested that our next trip should be to the aforementioned Black Shiver. In twenty odd years of caving in the Dales it's never been an outing that's been suggested and Julie had never visted either. A bit of reading at home suggested that this was a magnificent trip down a deep and wet pot hole, and so I began gathering together rope, a lot of rope. So much rope that a rendezvous with Tony was required to pick up some longer lengths. Thanks so much for driving over and I hope the exchanged rope will be of use on your adventure!

Meeting up with Julie the mass of rope and associated tackle seemed to almosf fill her car and we still had Mike to pick up. A working cuppa at his brought some semblence of order, a mound of chaos now contained in the cosmos of three tackle sacks. Further chaos was avoided by parking at a lower lay by in Chapel-le-Dale, a little extra elevation a small price to pay for the avoidance of the three peaks crowds. I was glad that both Mike and Julie had the location of the entrance on their devices, the seemingly featureless expanse of limestone bench stretching far in all directions, even the valley road was obscured, the plateau on the west of the valley seemingly smoothly connected to that on the east.

Kitting up cake is always welcome and Sam had done us proud, Julie incredibly having the self restraint to save half of her piece for later!? Mike also graciously allowed me rigging duties and so I located the first bag and tucked the description into my pocket. Looking down the entrance climb I was glad that we'd decided to bring an extra rope to act as a handline, a couple of the footholds being slick with mud. At the bottom of the climb an inviting passage led off but our way on was a low, cobble floored crawl following the small stream. This soon and improves and as ever, if it weren't for tackle sacks, would be a relatively pleasant hands and knees crawl.

The passage keeps improving all the way to the head of the first, short pitch. This and the following, slightly longer, Blood pitch we're both negotiated with little disturbance to our flow and we were soon a few metres before the head of the Black Dub pitch. Here the passage takes on an egg timer silhouette and it's said that it's easiest to rig the pitch via the upper part, before reversing and then joining the pitch rope through the lower part. Pitch duly rigged I squirmed through the bottom part of the passage and deposited myself into, not the dry sand normally associated with egg timers, but a cold, wet puddle. Despite the relative discomfort of the puddle, its proportions allowed easy access to the pitch rope and I was soon at its foot.

Normally at the bottom of a pitch you'd remove your descender from the rope and stomp off (or more recently, crawl off) down the passage. Stood though welly deep in a pool of dark water I wasn't stomping off anywhere and quickly clipped a bolt on the passage wall. Barely visible under a foot or two of water a narrow ledge lead along the left hand wall. Beyond it no light penetrated the inky black water than could well have been bottomless. Udging along the ledge I reached another bolt and secured a traverse line, glad to have avoided a dunking in the stygian depths.

Mike about to descend into, and Julie negotiating, the Black Dub

Keeping to the shallows

The deep water safely negotiated, it all seemed for nothing, the way on seemingly barred. Crouching down though, a low continuation of the pool offered further access into the depths and began crawling through the water I had just spent so much effort trying to avoid. Though quiet today, it doesn't require much imagination to realise why the original explorers called the next pitch Thunder pot, the water briefly pausing here before plummeting nearly 100 m down into the Black rift. Our journey too would be slightly delayed, a low bedding plane crawl on the left briefly leading away from the stream.

Once through the slot, an exceptionally comfortable stance allows contemplation of what is about to follow, Black Shiver's main course. Securely attached to the traverse line a long reach from the sanctuary of the stance allows the bolt for the second arm of a y-hang to be gained, and once rigged, a cautious swing out over the abyss. A deviation allowed for free hang down the rift, walls to either side remaining soundly vertical while the rope kept paying out from the bag. Then, emerging from the gloom, a bridge of jammed boulders across the rift offering a temporary respite from the vertical. A lone deviation bolt from the boulders meant that a pair of bolts for a y-hang should be close at hand and, a few metres above and out to the right, I finally spotted them. A short climb up the chocked boulders allowed access and I rigged the second 60 m rope. Before setting off on a pitch I always check the topo to see what I should be looking out for. Aside from the deviation bolt just below me, nothing,  just a single, uninterupted vertical line to the base of the rift some 55 m below. Added to the 30 or so metres of rift already descended the sheer scale of the pot was now beginning to become apparent.

Once again the rope just kept paying out from the bag and this time there weren't even some jammed boulders to distract from the ever downward journey through a subterranean cleft, millennia in the making. The call of "rope free" brought movement from two dots of light far above, and as one began its gravity defying descent towards me, I began to take in my surroundings. This is a truly awesome place.

A trio once more, we scuttled under the waterfall to find a hole, no more than half a metre high, that the water that is carving this covert cathederal descends through. Following, we were once again intimately acquainted with it and I was glad when the passage opened up to allow progress on hands and knees rather than flat out crawling. The description suggested that some parties abstain from this aqueous delight, returning immediately up the rift, but it really is a cracking piece of passage that soon brings you to a window overlooking a large chamber. A short pitch leads down into this before a continuation passage can be taken under a wall of boulders held together by quite a large amount of hope and ever so little calcite. The two smooth, monolithic walls of the rift are now fogotten, the rock of the passage carved into myriad forms and with formations clinging to its sides.

A final short pitch allows access to the final metres of the streamway before it runs into a sump pool. While the water and a few hardy souls can continue their journey beyond, for us though this marked our turn around point before the outward campaign.

Mike contemplating the sump pool

With Mike detackling I was able to enjoy the first part of the return sack free, always a huge privilege. I was glad too, to be unencumbered as I made my way back up the two long pitches to the beat of the slowest, most mournful, dirge. It is not often in Yorkshire, especially when weilding relatively bright lamps, that the rope disappears both above and below into darkness, leaving you suspended in space by influences unseen. Arriving at the intermediate rebelay my call of rope free down to Mike was immediately followed by Julie's from above and my hoped for rest was not forthcoming.

Beyond this slot lies an immense pitch

Once again making the most of the cosy niche at the head of the pitches we regrouped to haul the bags. Julie kindly then set off with one, and with Mike keeping the other as he derigged, my bag free caving jaunt continued. Not only bag free but my return crossing across the Black Dub was also greatly assisted by the traverse line. Climbing out from the Dub, the guide suggested a feet first return through the lower, wider, part of the egg timer but both Julie and I found there was plenty of space in the large puddle to allow a more conventional dismount before a repositioning of body parts to pass the brief narrowing. On his return Mike continued up until he reached the y-hang and egressed through the upper part of the passage with no issue.

Another bag filled, normal service was once again resumed, and I began my usual battle with a bag back towards the surface. Despite my newly acquired handicap, relative to those now behind us, the final couple of pitches seemed remarkably short and we were soon back in the entrance crawl.

Julie and Mike on the exit pitches

A patch of daylight became visible and a couple of tackle bag pushes later I could stand in the drizzle at the base of the entrance climb. Not wanting to ruin a quality day I attached my hand jammer to the handline and self belayed out into the surface shake hole. The imposing bulk of Ingleborough a dark shadow in the clag, Ribblehead viaduct visible at the head of the dale. I felt jealous of Julie's earlier self control as she devoured her final bit of cake and began to contemplate what we had in for tea. The return journey to the car was just as damp as the outward, the source merely changed from sweat to drizzle.

After such a classic trip there could be no other option but to head to the Barn and it was great to be joined by Emma and youngest for a couple of birthday beers. The Barn had even put on live music for the occasion.

The icing on the cake for such a fantastic trip was, literally, a cake. Sam, Mike's wife, having kindly baked one for my birthday, it's darkness and richness a further reminder of the features of this classic Yorkshire trip.

6th August 2026 - How cold?

A quick trip to share the delights of Middle Scar with Mike and Julie. The water in the canal has definitely not warmed up.

4th August 2026 - Another not trip report

Spending a currently rare, wet day catching up with blog writing it's quickly become apparent that there's been a bit of a dearth of photos recently. While some might get away with a solely text based blog, wity and erudite writing being enough to hold the reader's attention, writing is not my forte and so I hope the odd pretty piccie makes up for this.

While I may get lucky (more often when I'm able to get my helmet off and move its lamp to the side), on the whole the pictures I take with my wife's Olympus Tough (TG-5?) and just helmet lamps often feel a little disappointing and recently I've stopped carrying it.

My (long suffering?) wife's (long suffering?) Olympus TG-5/6?

Does disapointment come from trying to take pictures in far from ideal conditions? I'm also not sure if I bothered to hold my helmet and its lamp out to the side

Away from spray and humidity though things are much better

Give the Olympus lots of light eg subject close up, or here by shooting where daylight still reaches and I'm pleased with the results

I'd certainly not dream of taking out a non waterproof camera here

Of course though I'm able to take pictures extremely quickly, just pull the camera out of my chest pocket and in places I wouldn't dream of exposing a non waterproof camera. Fitting in a chest pocket also means my hands are free for dragging tackle sacks around. While I know It's far from fair to expect sharp, well lit images in many of these places where spray and high humidity abound, sifting through lots of hazy and grainy images for the odd 'keeper' can be a bit soul destroying. 

At the other end of the spectrum is the kit that I take only on 'photo trips'. I still like to think this is fairly compact: a mirrorless camera, flash controller and 3 flashes all in one Peli (1300) case, but it can still feel like a major inconvenience, especially on top of tackle sacks filled with rope. It's not just the physical bulk of the gear that has an impact on trips though. Setting up a shot with just 2 flashes, let alone 3 can feel like time is moving at a geological pace with friends feeling like they're entering a new ice age. Spending the time though, I'm often pleased with the results.

My much loved Canon RP

The case I carry it in. Not entirely a fair comparison as this Peli case will also hold 3 flashes and their controller

Some of my favourite pictures have been taken with a 2 flash set up

For a 3 flash setup your models have to be very understanding

Even just with a helmet lamp I'm pleased with results from the RP though of course these are 'ideal' conditions, no spray or humidity

So, is there a compromise solution? Even with just helmet lighting mirrorless cameras can produce much nicer results than those from a compact, so what about trying leaving the flashes at home and just taking a small mirrorless camera? When I upgraded to my Canon RP I tried to part exchange my trusty old Canon EOS-M. While it's definitely not all about the gear, the purchase of this camera resulted in a huge increase in image quality from the compact camera I'd used previously. 

With my EOS-M I felt like I was taking 'proper' photos for the first time (3 flash setup)

The camera shop 'expert' though said it wasn't worth anything as it looked like it'd been dragged through mud. What did they know!? My plan then is to try taking this camera as my 'default' camera on trips in the hope its case is still something I'm happy to take on longer trips or those when also burdened with lots of tackle.

My trusty EOS-M

My very smart new Inglesport case

Not a completely fair comparison, the Peli case on the left also holding 3 flash guns

Of course for wet and grim trips it'll be the Olympus everytime but I'm hoping that my new, light weight setup will see me taking a camera along on trips more often. As someone once said, "The best camera is the one you have with you."

2nd August 2026 - Tremendous through trip

Putting a date in the diary weeks in advance for a trip in August that requires dry settled weather is often a futile act but, as the day approached, the dry weather held and a return to Dowbergill passage was on. Looking in my copy of NFTFH I found that ever since my first traverse in 2022 with Mike, I've returned every couple of years. Once you've sampled its delights it will definitely keep drawing you back. For Julie though this was to be her first acquaintance.

Turning off the Skipton road and heading up into the Dales the scenery just gets better and better and I'm always amazed that there aren't more collisions as drivers are distracted by the awesome overhang of Kilnsey crag. While the continuing valley may be less vertigious, it's no less impressive and the village of Kettlewell is surely the archetypal Dales village.

Parking a little way up the Park Rash to make the return walk a little shorter we wandered into town and then back out, past the busy campsite and into the quiet valley leading up to Providence. The bracken was high and I felt like a lead rider on a Tour climb as I pushed my way through it. It also seems to have its own microclimate, holding heat under its canopy, already with wet and over suits pulled down to my waist there was little to do except enjoy the brief respite of vegetation free sections of path.

Pausing at the heavily lided entrance to dry off briefly we pulled on the rest of our gear and opened the heavy metal portal to Providence. Julie seemed happy with the plan of her leading while I read the description and it didn't seem long before we were at Stalactite corner and its junction with Dowbergill passage. I was quite pleased that, even though I kept the description close at hand (actually mainly at mouth as I needed both my hands), I could remember the general jist of the route and kept passing familiar landmarks.

Though I took my helmet off in anticipation, the stream level squeeze after 800 yard chamber didn't feel as bad as it has in the past, perhaps the lack of pasty in my brest pocket helped. At the next boulder choke we scrambled up from the stream and I tried to describe the esoteric little squeeze, that avoids the slimy climb above, to Julie. With my limited view from below she seemed to be in the right place and began a battle between hip bones and jammed blocks. Perhaps the choke had moved making it tighter? If Julue was struggling, glide as she does through most narrowings, then I didn't stand a chance. Was I fated to the grim looking rope climb over the choke? With a final wiggle she was through and I moved up to look at the gap she'd managed to get through. I had absolutely no chance. Fortunately a larger squeeze lay above the boulder she'd squeezed under and, with only limited acrobatics, I was also through.

Descending back towards the stream we came to a traverse level and, hoping this would preclude a thrutchy little rope climb we'd used in the past to avoid the narrows, carried on along it. Sure enough after a few metres we encountered the top of knotted rope and kept on at the same level. In my mind, previously we'd then just carried on until we'd met another rope to take us back down to stream level. Julie, ahead, was starting to wonder if it was possible to carry on at this level and so I made a recce down into the rift. Though I could see the streamway, the rift was far too narrow to descend, and it was an anxious few moments as I tried to move back up to a wider section in which I could keep moving forward. Providetially, after just a few metres the rift below me opened out and I could slither, unceremoniously, back down to the stream. Julie followed, pleased that she didn't have to find another way around my jammed body to go and get help.

Fast caving then followed and, warming up, we toyed with staying in the streamway for the rest of the traverse. The water really isn't that warm, even at this time of year, and so at the point the stream level route ducked under a boulder, we climbed up into the Gypsum traverse. At its end and and back down in the streamway we had a look at the sump below Hardy's Horror. Julie, having climbed onto the boulders that form it, could see my hand if I reached my arm through but neither of us fancied full immersion. 

The water at the Buddhist Temple duck was favorably low and after popping out from the end of the Dowber gill into Dow cave we enjoyed a blood warming stomp to the entrance. Enjoying a picnic by the babbling brook below the entrance a number of t-shirt and short clad walkers were trying to find some shade from the sun and we felt quite out of place in our neoprene and wellies.

It's a lovely walk back to the car, initially through a lush valley with its grazing cows, before dropping back down the Park Rash road to the car, giving ample opportunity to reflect on one of the finest underground journeys in the country.

1st August 2026 - A morning's adventure

Needing a morning's adventure for eldest and his friend, a return to Middle Scar seemed to fit the bill. Donning wetsuits we were glad it was just a short walk from the van to the entrance, the relentless Yorkshire sun beating down as it has for weeks now. The extended dry spell even ensuring that you can leave the Ribblehead road and not immediately sink at least knee deep in bog.

With buoyancy aids on we negotiated the first couple of metres of dry passage and then slipped into the cool dark waters of the canal, the fixed lines allowing us to keep our upper bodies mainly out of the water and letting us pull our way swiftly through the deepest section.

This aqueous obstacle overcome the boys took the lead and we regrouped at the bottom of the short pitch up the waterfall. Despite the warming effects of the more rapid movement to this point, the boys had opted to keep their buoyancy on, the thick foam providing welcome insulation. It's worth noting that even after weeks of warm weather the deep, slow moving water remains stubbornly cold. As swiftly as I could I gained the top of the pitch and lowered a ladder and life line. I'd been wondering why the tackle sack was so heavy but then remembered I'd brought my Petzl Rig rather than my usual Stop. While it's undoubtedly a great device for belaying others, I do question that they've seemingly constructed it from osmium, not the best choice in terms of either price or mass.

Before the boys set off again I briefed them on the delicacy of the upcoming chert formations and how they needed to be treated like the jelly fish that they'd once been. I'd love to have a friendly geologist on hand to explain how these 'walls' had formed in such a multitude of directions.

The 'final' waterfall chamber reached we quickly about turned, needing to keep moving. Only the pitch caused a brief hiatus in our outward journey and we were soon back in the water by the entrance. I thought the shrieks from the boys were due to the temperature, but no, they were due to a drowned shrew bobbing by at face height. My shrieks though were due to the cold as I realised too late that I hadn't zipped up my wetsuit.

Emerging at lunchtime and with the modal age of the group being considerably lower than usual, Seasons bakery in Ingleton provided a more than adequate substitute to The Barn for apres cave activities. When asked whether they wanted to sit in the shade or sun to devour our sausage rolls the response was both instantaneous and unanimous.

25th July - CPC Penyghent Pot

 AJ, Mick, Simon, Jay, Adie, Patrick and Mike

After a fabulous AJ organised trip through King Pot with the Craven, I was keen to join another of his trips. The fact that it was to Penyghent pot made it even more unmissable. I've only visited once before, but it had been a fantastic trip and I was looking forward to another trip with both a reduced share of tackle and a potential visit to one of the extensions.

It's been dry for weeks now but there was definitely moisture in the air and rain forecast as I drove to pick up Mike. Excellent brownie courtesy of Sam, a quick cuppa, a brief chat with Mike's aunt and we were off again on the way to the club cottage in Horton. The club's carpark was busy with both vehicles and bodies beginning to sort tackle but a short shuffle worthy of a top level Tetris player soon had all parties accomodated and all hands on the bagging of the ropes. Mick, Simon, Jay and AJ I'd met on the previous King pot trip and I was introduced to Patrick and Adie, the club's tackle master. Along with rope we were going to rig/derig pitches with, there were also a number of 'decomissioned' ropes that were going to be used to replace the handlines that aid progress in the rift.

Walking up to the pot we experienced a sensation that has become somewhat unusual of late, rain. We felt sorry for the people heading up Penyghent, any other day in the last 6 weeks they'd have had clear views. Today though the clag was properly down. While the initial plan had been for a potential visit to the Friday the thirteenth extensions we were glad that we'd revised our plans to aiming solely for the sump. I for one would prefer no rain forecast before heading into the likes of Psycho crawl.

While the ramblers made their way up into the clouds, we cut off left at right angles to the main path, following a vague trod. Arriving at an area of shallow shakeholes our party spread out until the scaffolded entrance was located and the group once again coalesced. Watching a group of cavers kit up it soon becomes apparent that there are often many solutions to a problem. While everyone sported a harness, descender and jammers, the type and arrangement were almost as numerous as the number of people.

Knowing what was ahead I lingered towards the back of the party, enjoying the light drizzle until the last possible opportunity, before climbing down the scaffolded entrance. The water was definitely warmer than on our previous visit. Lamentably this meant that I was able to feel my knees and I was envious of Aidie and his two sets of kneepads solution. One industrial pair for this crawl and then a lighter set for the rest.

The first pitch brings slight respite from the crawling of Pilgrims' way but it's only after Easy passage and the second pitch that Penyghent really starts to show itself at the beginning of The Rift. This is a superb piece of cave, scrambling interspersed with hand line climbs and pitches. The fun continues down to the improbable bypass of the, today ironically named, Niagara pitch. Here, for me, the walls of the cave become darker and there's an ominous feeling in the final waterlogged passage to the sump. I knew I was almost there as Patrick and Adie hurtled past me on their out saying that the dive line was just around the corner. A quick bite to eat and we began our upwards journey with Mike derigging.

The shine was slightly taken off The Rift as the bag became ever heavier and at each rope there was the question of wether we should be removing it or not. The general rule was that if it had a krab on it, it was coming out. The main issue was that to Mike and I's eyes some of the 'tatty' rope we were meant to be leaving in looked in way better condition than much of the rope we're used to using.

At some point along the entrance canal I began to think that even the smallest little inlet on the right was our way out as I was determined not to miss it. I needn't have worried as the correct exit had been marked by a lovely bit of wall (or art if you're a Goldsworthy fan). A final few wriggles with the bag and we joined the others on the surface.

The wander back down into the valley allowed time for chat with fellow club mates before the excitement of putting ropes through the washer back at the kit store. A brew in the hut, another 

[In progress...]

23rd July 2026 - Roadside Ribblehead

With Mike up in Glen Coe and limited time on my hands before the arrival of visiting relatives, a short but interesting trip was required. The CNCC guide describes Middle Scar as "A quirky Ribblehead gem, involving swimming, a challenging climb and a memorable summertime adventure." Perfect, just what Tony and I needed!

You know it's going to be an adventure when you have to add a buoyancy aid to your kit list, though I definitely felt a little out of place amongst the hoards of t-shirt and short clad viaduct spotters wearing a full wetsuit in the baking sun. Fortunately it was only a hundred or so metres to the cave entrance in a shake hole deep enough to hide our niche activity from view. A barn owl was using the solitude of the depression for a mid morning snack and while it was probably annoyed by being interrupted, we were awed by its flight. We removed the sheep repelling grille from the entrance and within a few metres we needed both our neoprene and buoyancy, the water both deep and cold.

With buoyancy on the first few out of depth metres of canal are superb. You can just float and haul yourself along on the currently in situ ropes, taking a moment to observe the dive line emerging from the depths and the wet(ter) entrance. The ropes end at the point you can wade and with the exception of the occasional collision with a submerged rock rib or two, it's superb caving. Dry land brings a return to the more usual caving found in these parts before arrival at a waterfall that bars the way on.

Two ropes hung down, one either side of enthusiastic trickle that the fall had been reduced to by weeks of dry weather. Despite having rather cool flecks of reflective material in its sheath the rope on the right looked quite ropey in the other sense of the word, so we opted for that on the left. While initially I was puzzled by the description of the climb as 'holdless', the issue soon became apparent. There look like there are holds but any attempt to use them in anger would probably result in them crumbling away.

Over the dam at the top of the fall a closer inspection could be made of the ropes and their anchors. I felt we had chosen wisely. While the rope we'd used was belayed to a number of sound looking bolts by 'traditional' rigging, that on the left was threaded through a couple of more dubious looking bolts and secured by stopper knots to prevent it pulling through the hangers. As it was also worn through to the core in a number of places we removed it and left it to pick up on our way back. 

Further classic caving brings you to the only junction in the cave. The way straight on, Mudlark, we read lives up to its name and we didn't feel it necessary to fact check the description. Left, up an inlet, leads to the more enticing Rising Mirth and what is now one of my favourite pieces of passage anywhere. It's not particularly remarkable apart from a series of incredible chert bands. Prior to this I think all the chert bands I've seen lie, like the limestone beddings they're sandwiched by, in the horizontal plane. These lie in the vertical plane and intersect the passage at a range of angles, sometimes even at 90 degrees to each other. The result is a series of walls or dams that look like the Hulk has smashed through, their integrity in places looking like it would be similar to a stud wall.

A remarkable assault course therefore ensues as you try to thread yourself through them, channeling your time spent as a youth playing Operation. I've never seen anything like them anywhere else and, after a recent visit to New Goyden as well, I think chert has now made it into my top three when it comes to types of rock. My favourite walls being where calcite had grown over the chert leaving glistening white walls instead of black. Sorry Mike when we take you to visit I'm going to be taking my big camera box!

Unfortunately all good things must come to an end and our passage 'finished' at another 5 m high waterfall in Parba pot. While the survey (it's fantastic that the CNCC descriptions now have links to the cavemaps site that they now host with all its online surveys) shows that the passage continues above the fall, we're told it's similar in nature to Mudlark and would also require further climbing aid. While turning around is normally associated with merely having to cover previously trodden ground, I was excited to have another opportunity to experience its amazing geology.

Despite our spending a couple of hours exploring, mainly in the water, we hadn't made much of an impact on its temperature and the final canal still felt cold. The excellent little homemade ladder allowed easy egress from the flooded section and back up into the beautifully engineered entrance. As soon as we climbed the metre or so out of the depression the car was immediately visible and we were there in a matter of minutes.

This is an absolutely stunning trip for small groups of careful cavers and it feels surreal that sucn adventure can be had so close to the crowds at Ribblehead. The only down side being trying to time the more revealing parts of your change with the few moments when there aren't people taking photos of the viaduct.

9th July 2026 - A pause for reflection

Spoiler: If you want a trip report look elsewhere, think only my lower half was underground for about 30 seconds. If though you're after some ramblings on why I only managed a 30 second trip, read on...

A teacher's timetable can have a big effect on how the year as a whole goes and I've learnt that, if occasionally it goes your way, you need to make the very most of it. Every second week on a Thursday there's been a chance that I can get away early and, with it being my last week in school this year, I wanted to make it count. 

The weather has remained remarkably dry so, coupled with the early start, we had the opportunity to keep the momentum going with East Kingsdale trips. Therefore, I suggested Growling to Mike. As ever he was more than up for any outing and so, under blue skies, we headed for Kingsdale. 

With the potential for a late return and to prevent disturbing the farm, weve taken to parking up by Yordas, the approach only being slightly longer. Today though the parking was full and Yordas itself was bustling with activity. Recognising a friend's car I went to chat while Mike parked the car further back down the valley. Sonja was there as her son was filming in the cave (see here) and she hoped to catch up with him at the end of the day.

It was a sweat soaked trudge up the valley side despite the fact that most of our cave clothing was in bags rather than worn and it was with some relief that we dumped the bags in the rough area of the pot while we looked for the entrance. There are a lot of shake holes in the shallow, dry valley leading up from the pile of stones that acts as a useful navigational aid but it wasn't long before we found the one thag we wanted.

Adding extra layers, gloves and a helmet the atmosphere began to feel even closer and I began to get frustrated as I tried to squeeze my harness into an already bulging tackle sack. Mike had swiftly rigged a handline for the entrance climb and had already disappeared from the foot of the climb as I first lowered my SRT kit leaking tackle sack and then myself into the gap in the limestone.

At this point my brain usually goes quiet. This is why I cave. There is a lot that I find frustrating in life, ranging from people who think it's fine to mix different pasta shapes to right wing nut jobs touting their illogical and vile twaddle and I admit that it gets to me. Drinking is one way of calming my racing mind but obviously this isn't a sustainable solution for numerous reasons. A weekly caving trip, with the finest mates you could wish for, therefore serves as my healthy therapy. The physical challenge of moving through passage, or the mental problem solving of rigging allow a fast track to a flow state in which I'm only focussed on the present. This normally sets in the moment the cool air of the cave us met, or on clipping the first carabiner. Today though my mind kept racing.

Was it overheating on the way up? Coming to the end of a busy term but with school trips still ahead? The fact that youngest had just fallen off his bike and, while he'd escaped with a bit of road rash, I still needed to sort his bike before going away? Or even something as petty as knowing my harness would keep trying to escape from my sack and require constant restuffing as I made my way along the crawl below me? An amalgamation of all of the above?

Fortunately Mike was still in ear shot of my muted, "I can't do this." "Can't do the move, or feel you shouldn't be here", he sagely asked. It was definitely the latter, my whole body almost physically revulsed by the act of entering the cave.

As previously mentioned, it's not just the caving that acts as my therapy, but that it's done with amazing friends. Friends who're there for you both when things are going well or, as today, not so well. 

With minimal kerfuffle we were soon having a pleasant wander further up the valley identifying other entrances before the slightly less stifling descent back down to the car and the inevitable pint in The Barn. Growling will hopefully still be there for me on another day...

1st July 2026 - I can see clearly now

Since our previous visit to Spectacle at the end of May, work has put paid to a few potential trips and this week too was going to be a non starter. I have fantastic colleagues though and Mr Hamilton exceptionally kindly agreed to running a parents' evening by himself allowing a trip in a brief weather window.

Caving on a Wednesday as opposed to a Thursday meant there were different folk around and we had the pleasure of bumping into one of the Thunder pot diggers as we set off from the lay by. Just before Heron we heard a muffled bleating sound and peering down a small hole we could just make out the nose of a sheep who, living in an area famed for it, had decided to try its hoof at pot holing. Fortunately she had the attribute of being a team player and allowed a straightforward capture and hoick back to the surface. Undettered by her initial experience, she seemed keen for more and followed us towards Spectacle before being distracted by a patch of grass.

A month of warm and fairly well watered weather seemed to have resulted in a huge expansion of the tussocks and the crossing of the moor from Heron seemed much harder work than previously, an exchange of waves with the diggers at their tripod giving but brief respite.

Our previous recce allowed us to find the entrance much more easily than before and we were soon down the first pitch and the ensuing free climbs. At Splutter crawl there were distinct pools of water, rather than the continuous canal of our earlier visit, so I assumed my best Superman pose and inserted my body. I'm still not quite sure about where my source of forward propulsion came from but I was concious of trying to use my toes to udge me forward inch by inch. A couple of metres in, the cave seemed to give me a welcoming hug and there were a couple of opportunities to cool my face in well placed puddles before a narrow slot in the floor signalled an expansion of the passage. The fun though continued with a head first descent of 2 metres of ladder which I'm glad Mike wasn't able to witness.

Pulling the rope I'd been towing the tackle sacks emerged through the crawl, shortly followed by Mike. The second pitch was close at hand and, though described as 'narrow and awkward', after Splutter crawl, seemed fine.

The next obstacle was the Wet Crawl. While 'wet' is a perfectly adequate adjective to describe the crawl, low, loose and quite long could also be used without arguement. As ever in these situations, Winston Churchill's paraphrased words about a tackle sack being a good way to ruin an enjoyable cave, came to mind. The bow wave of displaced gravel in front of the pushed sack was frustrating, but when an enthusiastic push broke a thin flake of rock from the side of the crawl and loose rubble poured in, I was genuinely frightened. Fortunately as the stones knitted together the flow stopped and I was able to carefully clear a way forward, the end of the crawl lying just a few metres ahead.

Once more in relatively expansive surroundings we redonned our SRT kit and scrambled over a boulder or two to the impressive Dodd's pitch. I struggle to find rebelay bolts, even with my lamp on full beam and so resorted to the natural described in NFTFH which was more than adequate to give a free hang. Just below the bottom of the pitch, the lower of twin eyeholes (the source of the pot's name?) gave access to the penultimate and increasingly loose pitch. Where this ends is a matter of opinion as the angle of the pile of choss gradually relents. 

A further scrambling descent of the Great Rubble Heap leads to the final pitch. It's worth noting that there is now a resin bolt here, so no hanger required, as well as a forlorn plank of wood that seems to do a surprisingly good job of preventing the pitch filling with scree. A few metres down the sum of the obstacles we'd overcome to get here, coupled with a narrowing of the pitch and further tottering choss got the better of me. This was going to be another bit of passage that we'd reluctantly leave for when Tony could join us. Mike seemed happy with this arrangement and we began our swim up the slope to the bottom of our ropes.

Fortunately the Wet Crawl seemed shorter on the return and we soon seemed to be at the ladder contemplating how we were going to get our tackle sacks back through, the slot at the crawls entrance denying an easy pull through. Depositing the bags into this slot, I crawled over them, once again towing a rope behind. Mike then udged up into the crawl, tied on each bag and manoeuvred them into position for me to pull through. I doubt that this was as easy to do as he made it seem, but they were both soon on their drag through the crawl.

Normally it takes a couple of days before I start to ache after a trip but putting my SRT kit back on, I could feel it in my shoulders straight away. It was with quite a bit of relief that I pulled out onto the moor, the not insignificant rain slightly worrying as we hadn't expected it for a further hour or so. Even the short climb back up to the car caused leg muscles to remind me they'd been working hard and removing my wet t-shirt proved to be quite a struggle with shoulders now calling time.

As we drove back towards Kirkby the rain fell ever harder and it was a desolate town centre we found on arrival. The Barn was shut tight, the Snooty Fox likewise, so through deepening puddles we tried Avanti, no joy, before finally a welcome in the Red Dragon. Joined by Uncle Dan we more than doubled the clientel and the Scots barmaid seemed more than happy to close up around us while we drank. It has to be said that no-one would ever confuse any one of the three of us with a professional basketball player so it made Dan's evening when he was asked if he could help reach some napkins from a high shelf.

As the barmaid contemplated the flooding cellar, I was wishing for the immense shoulders of the referree in charge of the football game on the TV and knowing that the satisfaction of this trip would last considerably longer than the aches and pains.