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 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 low 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.
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