It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me, such as when cooking with wine always buy two bottles. Jerry had invited me along to provide moral support as he took Eddie to the Northants Caving Club Family Weekend (please don't launch [as everyone else has] into, "I didn't know there were any caves in Northamptonshire.", there aren't, it's where they all live). This involves camping, caving and a sort of communal meal/football match (dependent on age).
We had decided to go up on the Saturday (well Jerry had, as he was doing a run [the Colworth Five] on the Friday) so I arrived late Friday, bearing what I could carry without my back exploding, consequently, I would be caving in old clothes, as opposed to a weighty furry- and oversuit combination.
Actually, arriving late on Friday didn't go down to well as Gail had cooked, and it took me two hours from London to their door (Cambridge Public Transport Committee having decided that it was a much better idea for buses to leave the Station five minutes before the trains arrived, as opposed to, five minutes after), however the salmon was still delicious, if slightly unexpected.
In the morning I was treated to the usual "accidental" door opening and stage whispers, I rose to fulfill my duties as "Second-Best Tickler". While swimming lessons took place, Jerry and I hoovered (!) and finally got the DVD player in the car working. Then we packed, installed Eddie and headed North, pausing only to buy lunch and fire up HP plus Goblet of Fire. We arrived at Birchover and found the campsite by the simple process of knobbling passing folk from Northamptonshire and saying, "Where's the campsite?" They would stop and say, "Oh Hello! It's over there". After forking out an exorbitant campsite fee £7.50/$14 ("Humph! I'd rather not have the sauna and pay less!" J), we persuaded folk to move their cars off the flat bit, and pitched the tent.
The afternoon progressed with tea, and Eddie coming over all shy, so we, Eddie and I, decided to head off for an explore, and a bit of a climb up and down a bank or two, this went quite well, only two assaults by brambles (one each) and one sitdown on a very pointy rock (Eddie). Plus, there was still tea waiting when we got back.
Eventually the caving trip was declared and we all set off for Jug Holes. Having the Ordnance map I guided Jerry onto the most direct route, after a mile or so of terror, we decided not to come back that way, and so pulled in behind everyone else at the parking for the cave. We changed, Jerry into a furry and oversuit combination, myself into my crotchless cycling trousers ( I should say that this indicates wear and tear rather than perversion ) and horridest t shirt, later followed, reluctantly, by a fleece, Eddie into "whatever young boys get dirty in" clothes.
The cave came in two parts, the first part being a large cavern entrance with a series of small muddy (very) chambers at the back. As I sat in one, waiting for Eddie to negociate a slippery slope I glanced at the boulder next to me, it glanced back at me, it was blue! I hefted it, it was blue - and heavy. I picked it up and took it into the sunlight, it was now muddy and only vaguely blue, but it was still heavy. I broke it. "Cor!" A big lump of Blue John. Thus happy we went down the hill to entrance two and the possibility of the "round trip". The entrance was a large pipe, inside there was a mine adit and halfway along a mine cart (very Indiana Jones) and a small laminated notice saying, "Don't touch the ceiling - Loose Rocks" (very Big John), after that a chamber, another truck and a bit of natural cave, muddy and tight natural cave. We squoze on, the mud lubricating our passage by the simple process of coming off on our clothes. Eventually we met the party coming the other way, some elected to carry on, others to go back with us, though sadly no-one knew the way. After a ten minute faff the through route was discovered and the shorter people (not me - for a change) assisted over, under, down and between things. The end was a twelve foot ladder climb, that was much easier if you didn't use the ladder (or eschewed it, as we say in the Lake District). This caused the most heartache for the junior members, as they were too short to climb anything but the ladder, I agreed with them, I hate the bloody things. Back in the sunlight I surveyed myself, blue Bedford cord (crotchless) trousers - now brown, grey fleece - now brown, natty striped undies - now brown (mud - thank you), horrible t-shirt - not brown enough due to intervention of fleece. We broke out the binliners and changed.
Back at the campsite there was a lot less grass visible, most of the site seemed to be full of fifteen year old school parties. I went and checked my bag, yep, there were the essentials of happy camping, ear plugs and a sleep mask, they just might work against the undoubted onslaught of RnB and rioting. Jerry, Eddie and I went to sleepmat at about 10.00, and so did the school parties, consequently we were only kept awake by the riot and ghetto blasters of the Northants Caving Club.
Morning, heavy cloud flying in from the west, casting a weather eye we dissembled the tent just as it began to rain, then we went for a little walk, which became littler as the rain became heavier. So we went home.
A couple of days later, and after an extensive flailing to remove loose mud, I did the washing, lobbing in a pair of grey trousers with the fleece, this was a mistake, I had forgotten the tenacity of cave mud (so tenacious that most cavers have a pair of underpants dedicated to caving trips, as they never wash sucessfully), consequently I now have a pair of grey trousers and a fleece that are impregnated with a fine grit, giving them a certain stiffness and a mild abrasive nature (rather like myself).
Moral: Been caving? Use a bucket!
