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Present: Little Chris, Old Al, Young Ian, John Redhead

A most excellent trip, with a little of everything.

The journey down was delayed, as usual, by a good deal of phaff, but still we managed to breakfast at Tesco’s and consume the usual fat-laden goodies. Chris and Al attacked one another with little pots of milk and we wisely left before the Tesco’s staff could throw us out for such wastage. After the van had drunk its fill of petrol we set off for the Dales. The mighty van ploughed on inexorably until clouds of blue smoke began to issue from the engine. A stop resulted in a rapid diagnosis (‘Ralph’s fault’) and repair with cable ties. It also gave Al the chance to swap from the nauseating back seat to the front – this change obviously overexcited him, and he attempted another swap, this time via the windows whilst in motion. The attempt was curtailed by Chris, but not before Al had nearly severed his legs on a drystone wall. Onward! And the destination of Gawthrop was reached. What should have been a grade 1 change was elevated by parking the van in an oil slick. And the largest collection of dog turds in a developed country. Oh, and Chris only had one welly. After much soul serching and debate he decided to cave in boots – hardcore!

To the cave! Or so we thought. In fact we walked up the wrong stream. Bugger! Back to the van to consult the book of knowledge. We then canyoned up a new, Jurassic Park type gully to find the entrance – 6 inches above water level and dammed by flood debris. So we plunged in, soon to be crawling through debris of a disturbingly organic scent. Then John found the pitch by the simple act of nearly falling into it. Then began the rigging – hours of failure culminating in a ladder hung from a wobbly boulder with no life-line. So we self-belayed down and soldiered on through finely decorated passageways of much loveliness. So lovely that Al felt obliged to extract his camera from the NAUGHTY WHITE TUB and take approximately 50,000 photos. Still onwards and the roof lowered until a flat out crawl in the stream was underway. We splashed numbly on until John became worried by the way his head no longer fitted between the piles of debris. So we turned back. But the cave was not finished with us yet for it tore John’s trousers off in rage while he was too numb to notice. Once hysteria at the sudden trouser loss had died down, a rapid exit was achieved and various routes returned us to the van (Al, Chris, John = trespass vs. Ian = wet). The journey home was smooth as a battered baby’s bum, or a well-shaven monkey if you prefer.

All in all a stonking good trip.

Phrase of the trip: “The cave stole my trousers!”

John