Memories
By J. W. Swithinbank.
In the evening of one’s life, gazing through the firelight into the past with its myriads of pictures, events and incidents jumbled and in broken periods at first, gradually resolve themselves into sequence and order. Reviews of the past may be at mixture of pain and pleasure, yet, even so, it is well to look. Treasures will be found that give delight to the present and will continue to do so while memory remains.
Amongst the many treasures I possess are not a few associated with pot-holes; ‘trivial incidents in themselves, perhaps, but they are the key-notes to much that gives me real pleasure in the recalling. Leck Fell and its pot-holes are amongst my favorite mental excursions and it is possible now to remember almost with a pleasurable sensation the grinding of dear old Pidge’s heavily nailed boots into my shoulders.
A kettle, cork and broken telephone line seem to have little connection with each other, but they are in my mind inseparably associated with Charlie Scriven and Rowten Pot. It was on the occasion of our actually reaching the bottom of the Pot after several abortive attempts. The rope ladders, making connection between ” The Bridge ” and the 250 ft. level, had been lowered and paid out into the depths below; this break in the climbable connection with “The Bridge” rendered of vital importance the telephone circuit installed as a means of communication between these two points. It is difficult to understand why a telephone line always breaks down when it is most required, but the inevitable occurred on this occasion. When the time came for hauling on the main ladder lines at “The Bridge” to restore a climbable means of communication with that point, the telephone refused to work. Feeble tinklings of the bells were evidence of our anxiety to get into touch, but the line refused to “talk.” Whistling and shouting were tried but anyone familiar with the Pot and the 250 ft. level will readily appreciate how utterly impossible it was that such means would be successful. We were indeed in a sad predicament; as a last resource a message was written on a scrap of paper and tied to a light halliard that had been used for the conveyance of refreshment, hoping that sooner or later someone on “The Bridge” would haul it up. We had not long to wait; the line, with its vital message, suddenly disappeared up the chasm, to our infinite satisfaction and delight. Everything that goes up or down Rowten Pot main chasm does so in the heavy waterfall for something like 150 ft., yet we hoped that message would land. It had, as we subsequently learnt, met, with a watery grave, but Charlie “sensed” the situation and sent the halliard down with a tin kettle, having a cork in the spout, tied to the end. One doesn’t find much opportunity for a hearty laugh in pot-holes as a rule, but when Charlie’s kettle with its corked spout appeared we had one of the finest reasons for hilarity that ever came our way below ground.
Death’s Head Pot is very beautiful, so far as the surface and the upper portion of the chasm are concerned, but the bottom has an evil reputation. Parsons and myself were the first two men to descend this pot many years ago, and on that occasion a rock fell from the brink with a thunderous noise to the bottom of the chasm, covering us with fragments of rock, a harmless baptism accompanied by an evil smell of sulphur. In 1918 we both stood on the floor of the chasm for the second time, and the incident repeated itself in all its details, with the slight addition that the rock cut into two pieces an ash rung of a rope ladder at our feet. An uncanny pot-hole. ‘Fairies’ Workshop is a pretty name for a pretty pot (also called Rumbling Hole), and there is reason in the name-to lie on the brink of this pot on a still summer’s day is distinctly to hear the fairies at work below. The sweet tinkling of the fairy hammers and the ring of the anvils are the most delightful sounds one can ever expect to listen to. To investigate that fairy home was undoubtedly an act of intrusion and we should deserve all we got at fairies’ hands. But it had to be done; 200 ft. of rope ladder was sent hurtling down the chasm, promptly followed by rude, uncouth “humans.” As might be expected, the little fairies had ceased to work and disappeared. It seems almost brutal to explain that we found the charming fairy notes were caused by little drops of water falling from the roof of the cavern at the bottom, on to musical stones scattered about on the floor. It’s a beautiful fairy tale and true.
Hell Hole, although not in the same area, now creeps into the picture. Charlie will remember entertaining an irate and aggressive farmer who resented our presence on his land without permission. Charlie being specially good at entertaining, we left him, together with the commissariat, to make peace. It was a wise thing to do, because we found them, when we returned to daylight many hours later, the very best of friends. Hell Hole will always be famous for its 15 in. “Fat Man’s Misery,” and a spike. The “Fat Man’s Misery” concerned us all, but the spike is peculiar to Booth. It was most unfortunate that in lowering him down the final chamber in a bowline, he should meet the business end of a sharp spike coming up. Those who have the pleasure of Tom’s intimate acquaintance will be able to understand his description of the men on the rope who continued to lower, contrary to his instructions.
Ghosts are not usually associated with pot-holes, but it is impossible to think of Lost John’s without remembering the horrible sight Booth and I once saw in the last watercourse lending to the final chamber. Representing the vanguard, and lightly loaded with tackle, we were well in advance of the main party who were bringing along the heavier stuff; a halt was called for refreshment, and it was during this “watch below” the strange and horrifying incident occurred. Sitting together eating sandwiches, surrounded by Stygian blackness, made more intense by the feeble rays of a tallow candle, we became conscious that something was wrong in front; the passage was becoming luminous, a soft glow at first, but increasing in intensity until the whole passage became one glowing mass of light. This lasted for a very short time and then the luminosity appeared to concentrate in the centre of the passage and take vague shape. By this time I was badly scared; it was my first real ghost and I had no precedent to guide me. “Absence of body is better than presence of mind ” flashed through my mind only to be dismissed; scared as I was, I knew enough of Lost John’s to realise that any ‘display of speed would probably end in something worse than the ghost. The luminous form now began to approach, slowly, but still decreasing the distance between us-it was appalling; common sense and reason gave place to unreason, I Shakespeare was vindicated, there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in Horatio’s philosophy. Here, in the very heart of Lost John’s, was the spirit of the cave resenting our intrusion. By this time I knew what having “cold feet” meant. Fortunately the tension was relieved; the ghost, still approaching, began to smell and I recognised the smell. The explanation is very simple. After deciding to halt for refreshment, I had detached the candle from my hat and stuck it on the passage side in order that by its light the tackle could be stacked up clear of the water running down the passage, and, having done this, we had retreated some distance to find more comfortable quarters than were possible at the point where the tackle was laid, the small piece of candle being left to burn out. The stage was set for a spectacular effect in surroundings that lent themselves to realism; it only needed the candle to fall from the wall on to the tackle below, set fire to the in-flammable material which composed the covering of the spare length of telephone circuit, to create the “Ghost of Lost John’s.” I have investigated spiritualism seriously and from every angle of view since, and it is my considered judgment that the very best the mediums could show me was tawdry and cheap compared with the ghost I saw in Lost John’s.
Two other incidents are connected with Lost John’s. Parsons and myself were on one occasion the last to leave, and before making a start on the home journey were warned by telephone that the weather was ominous and a deluge might be expected at any moment. It was left to our discretion whether an attempt should be made to negotiate the stretch of “misery” before the storm broke, or seek higher ground and wait for events. Deciding to take the risk of meeting the flood in the tight place, special effort was made to emerge from that bottle-neck in time. Notwithstanding our strenuous exertions, and almost within sight of success, the flood struck us; we were both prone at the time, working our way at full length when the water came, and with such volume and force that it washed Parsons’ pipe from his mouth. Watery experiences of this kind are not usual, but the interesting part of this incident is found in the sequel. Some weeks afterwards Parsons was leading an expedition down the pot and unthinkingly turning over a stone in the water sink at the extreme corner of the final chamber, saw, with the utmost astonishment, a portion of his pipe. Search for the rest was successful, and the pipe, now adorned with silver bands, enjoys a place in his collection of curios.
The other incident concerns an aneroid. Some years ago Parsons had been taking levels in Lost John’s and, unfortunately, the aneroid he had been using in the pot was either lost there or forgotten. Crossing the fell a few years afterwards, Parsons overtook a complete stranger, and after exchanging courtesies, entered into conversation, with the curious result that the stranger supplied the name and address of a gentleman who had found an aneroid in Lost John’s. Correspondence with the finder ended in its restoration to the rightful owner.
The pipe incident in Lost John’s recalls to mind another pipe incident in Bull Pot Booth and myself were leading a small party down this some years ago when a point was reached where additional tackle was advisable. It was decided that Booth and myself should remain where we were and the rest of the party work their way back to the entrance for it. In the circumstances of the considerable period of inactivity before us, and both being lovers of “My Lady Nicotine,” it is not surprising we should look forward with pleasure to a long smoke and chat. We possessed three pipes, an ample supply of tobacco, and plenty of waterproof matches. After settling down, it was something of a shock to find the first pipe produced broken beyond use, but after all, it was not a matter of much moment since we had other two pipes left. When, however, the second pipe was found to be also broken, anxiety as to the condition of the third and last pipe became intense. It is impossible to express in words the sense of relief when it was found the last pipe was sound and workable. Some unwritten law of camaraderie immediately decided that the pipe was common property, and the only difficulty was how long should each be allowed possession of it. That point needed careful consideration. It was finally agreed that each smoker should fill the pipe with tobacco and light it, but having once started the pipe no further lighting was permissible. Should the smoker be unable to show smoke, the pipe passed. Neither had practised the art of keeping a pipe going with a minimum consumption of tobacco, or realised that to remove a going pipe from the mouth in order to enjoy a joke is just about long enough for a pipe to go out. It was a useful experience.
“Sammy of the Green Sack” always treated pot-holing seriously, as became a man who undertook the scientific side of our excursions. Yet there were times when he “took a hand in the game.” During one of our early experiences on the road, Booth, Sammy and I were bedded in a room containing a full-sized bed and a single bed. The usual application of the Law of Chances gave me possession of the single bed, which I proceeded to occupy with almost indecent haste and wondering how the choice of “outside berth” in the double bed would turn out. Sammy put a period to all doubt a few minutes later by removing his glasses and intimating with a merry twinkle in his eyes that he’ would occupy the outside berth. Tom was ever a man of trial and achievement, and when he realised that the coveted outside berth was not to be the subject of a sporting chance, proceeded to argue the matter in his own particular way. The argument developed and spread with alarming rapidity all over the room; nothing movable escaped its influence. The damage to property became more serious as time went on, but it was of small consequence when compared with the question “To whom should the outside berth be given?” For two hours Tom tried every hold known to science without result. It was impossible to hold Sammy. After one round lasting two hours the truth was forced on Tom, that nothing living could hold, Sammy when he warmed to his work. I should mention that Sammy did not wear pyjamas and the night was hot.
Anything approaching a practical joke with pot-holers is not a thing to undertake lightly.
On one of our Ingleton trips I happened to be leading a small party down a very disagreeable watercourse, when I arrived at what I thought was a large round stone partially submerged in the stream and apparently blocking further progress. On attempting to negotiate this obstacle I was disgusted to find my left arm had penetrated a dead sheep. It was my duty of course to warn those behind me of the nature and character of the big stone partially submerged in the stream, but, alas, I fell-and waited quietly at the other side for events. They occurred all right and I fully enjoyed the joke-and forgot it-that was my mistake. Early next morning, when I was moving about the bedroom in the hotel, in a condition that might be described as ” stripped for gym.,” I was hustled by some of the boys into joining in an alleged raid on Sammy’s room. That was another mistake, because I suddenly found myself in the hotel corridor’ quite alone, every bedroom door locked and every bedroom bell pealing and clamouring for the immediate appearance of the staff. IT DOESN’T PAY to be funny with speleologists!
I should like to take this opportunity of introducing an incident which occurred in the early days and point a moral for the benefit of future generations of pot-holers. Parsons and I had suddenly decided to investigate Marble Steps Pot without tackle of any sort except the inevitable life-line. The expedition was immediately carried out and most successful in every respect, but we had committed the very grave crime of descending an entirely strange and unknown pot-hole without informing a living soul of our destination and intention. It needs little imagination to picture a tragedy in such circumstances. The moral is obvious: never undertake an expedition without leaving sufficient particulars of your destination to enable a rescue party to take prompt and timely action. Parsons will forgive me for introducing this incident, because I know how strongly he will support the moral.
A priceless memory is the faith and trust in each other that is born of pot-holing. I wonder how many men outside the climbing world know what safety and confidence can be found in a single hand-clasp, when that clasp is the only link between safety and death. In the early days of pot-holing, when tackle, was not so commonly used, it was no unusual experience to hear the words, “Right, now swing clear.” That hand-clasp was symbolic of the purest system of ethics ever thought out by mankind.
The best side of pot-hole excursions is invariably associated with “Lewis” and “Connie.” The quiet good-natured witticism of the one, and the spontaneous good humour of the other, made for unity and smoothed rough places.
I raise my hat to all the Pioneer Pot-Holers.