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.