An article in yesterday's Mail on Sunday about the Three Counties System, in the Yorkshire Dales National Park is also on the Daily Mail website at
Into-abyss-Stretching-counties-70-miles-inside-Britains-vast-newly-pioneered-cave-system.htm
Cavers have been exploring the various individual caves in the system for the last 30 years, looking for and making connections. The system now totals around 70 miles in length.
The new connection links Notts Pot with Lost John's Cave. During 1985/86 Steve Gough, Ric Halliwell and I spent over 100 hours digging beyond Acrobat Pot in Notts Pot, at a site previously dug and abandoned by Lancaster University in the 70s. We had occasional help from others, notably Ian Jepson, who is now sadly no longer with us. We broke through a very unstable boulder and mud choke into a new piece of cave, which Steve and I explored for a couple of hours one Monday, comprising a mud filled hall having an aven with a roof of jammed boulders and some clean washed, narrow stream passage with a few fine formations leading to a flat out bedding plane crawl partially filled with loose cobbles. We named the aven Hangingwater Hall and the passage, Clay Pigeon Inlet (because it had a chute part way along it). We published our discovery in the CPC journal for that year. When we returned the week following the break-through, the route into this new stuff had collapsed and despite many weekends of digging, which involved lying in mud in an increasingly smaller space, poking above our heads with a large iron bar, we never got back through. Our feeling was that this would have been a dry way into Notts II, which had recently been discovered by divers. This preceded the opening up of a route to Notts II from the surface by about 10 years. This link to Lost John's goes off from at inlet in Notts II. This is nowhere near our dig but it's very satisfying to see the connections gradually falling into place, even if it has taken more than 20 years to get this far.
Monday, 26 July 2010
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
North to the Cape - Day 5: Onwards to Shiel Bridge
It rained heavily all night. Looking out from the door of the potting shed the next morning, everywhere was awash. Knoydart was in flood. I half expected an ark to go sailing by with pairs of animals on board: 2 sheep, 2 deer, 2 midges, 2 cleggs (or would that be a Clegg and a Cameron?). I went out clutching the poo trowel to contemplate the day ahead and inspect the ford. It looked considerably deeper than the previous evening.
We put all our wet gear back on - bringing back unpleasant memories of Sunday caving trips in the Dales - and stepped from the relative comfort of the shed into driving wind and rain. At the ford we loosened our rucksack straps, linked arms and with one pole apiece waded across slowly. It was only knee deep but it was fast flowing and underfoot was quite uneven and loose.
After the ford - the track below Sgurr na Sgine
After some sock wringing, we followed the track until it ran out at the point where the burn coming off the south west corner of Sgurr na Sgine meets the Allt Coire Mhalagain. And now we faced a more serious challenge. This was in spate and too dangerous to cross at this point. We followed it uphill for about 500 feet, passing a dozen or more branches until eventually it was possibly to cross safely.
Our nemesis - the uncrossable burn
We kept the height, contouring round the western slope of Sgurr na Sgine and rising up towards the bealach. I was looking for a lochan and I was looking for a summit called Meallan Odhar. Unfortunately, I was looking for both of them in the wrong place. There is a lot of contour activity in that particular kilometre square on the 1:50000 and with the rain on my glasses and the wind, I was having trouble making sense of it. The image of the topography in my head was nothing like what I was glimpsing periodically through the cloud and rain. We were too high for Meallan Odhar and we had missed the lochan somehow. I got a position from the GPS and set a compass bearing for the lochan. The terrain still didn't make sense but our best shot was to believe the map and not my head.
Christine was also having a bad time, being blown over by the wind. In my urgency to get off this hill, I lost her twice in the space of a few minutes. It brought to mind the line about losing both parents from The Importance of Being Ernest. Following the bearing, I'd lost some height (reluctantly) and when I looked round I could see her above me, but encased as I was in black goretex, she couldn't see me, even from 50 yards away. Nor could she hear my shouts and whistles and I had lines from a King Crimson track playing in my head - "I talk to the Wind, My words are all carried away". Cue flute and melotron. It made a change from the theme to the A Team, which had been plaguing me since Glenfinnan.
I walked back up the hill and shouted something like, "follow me", which must have got translated by the wind as "stay there". Another compass check and I set off again towards this irritatingly illusive lochan. I found a line of fence posts heading downhill and followed them to the lochan, perched right on the bealach. Unfortunately this was precisely the direction I had just minutes before told Christine not to go, thinking it would lead into the wrong valley. I looked behind me. No-one was there. I waited a few moments for her to come out of the mist. Nothing. I left my pack by the lochan and fuelled by panic induced adrenaline, ran back up the line of fence posts. I found her sheltering behind a big rock. I took her pack and shouted to follow the fence posts and stop at my rucksack. I threw on her pack, pulled the straps tight and set off behind her. It was a monster. I was bent double against the wind and every gust threw me off balance.
We reached the col and swapped rucksacks. "You've got to burn this thing", I shouted but I don't think she heard me. I pointed to the valley and threw myself down the slope with only one thought in mind - to get off the hill (this time checking I was being followed). A couple of hundred feet down and the wind died away, the rain eased and the cloud lifted. Wiping my glasses I took another GPS reading and located us on the map. We were dropping into the wrong valley. And then the penny dropped and I understood what we should have been doing. In fact the Book says, go up to the bealach and keep to the left of the lochan and contour towards a line of large stones. Of course the Book was back in Sheffield. The stones are actually a rough wall with a track behind it. The track leads to Meallan Odhar, which is at the end of a spur running NE from the bealach. How obvious and simple it was now!
The Forcan Ridge from the bealach below Meallan Odhar
We climbed back up to the wall, and followed the track to Meallan Odhar, from where we descended to a col separating the A87 and the Allt a Choire Chaoil. On the way down we passed some lads who said they were going over the Forcan Ridge. Had it been a sunny day, we had considered this as an option but in these conditions it seemed madness. Later on I looked back and could just make out two of them on the ridge. I wouldn't have been surprised to them clinging by their fingertips as the wind blew them out like flags.
Allt a Choire Chaoil
Our route down Allt a Choire Chaoil was largely trackless punctuated occasionally by some evidence that we were not the first to pass this way. The rain had set in again and it took an age to cover 2.5 km to the point where we should have been able to cross the Allt Undalain and pick up the land rover track leading to the campsite at Shiel Bridge. However, the gods weren't letting us off that lightly and no matter how long we stared at the problem, the water level didn't get any less than suicidal. So we continued down the eastern side of the river, which was trackless, boggy and rough, periodically taunted by the sight of the land rover track. We were starting to lose any sense of enjoyment today but pressed on with the promise of a warm, dry room booked at the Kintail Lodge Hotel.
We arrived in a very bedraggled state and I was slightly worried that when they saw us they might tell us they had lost the booking! Instead, they were splendidly welcoming and helpful and showed us to the drying room. A hot bath, hot meal and a few pints of Red Cuillin made the world a better place. Outside it was still raining.
9 miles and 2,400 ft for the day. Total distance from Glenfinnan: 46 miles
Neither of us took many photos that day.
We put all our wet gear back on - bringing back unpleasant memories of Sunday caving trips in the Dales - and stepped from the relative comfort of the shed into driving wind and rain. At the ford we loosened our rucksack straps, linked arms and with one pole apiece waded across slowly. It was only knee deep but it was fast flowing and underfoot was quite uneven and loose.
After the ford - the track below Sgurr na Sgine
After some sock wringing, we followed the track until it ran out at the point where the burn coming off the south west corner of Sgurr na Sgine meets the Allt Coire Mhalagain. And now we faced a more serious challenge. This was in spate and too dangerous to cross at this point. We followed it uphill for about 500 feet, passing a dozen or more branches until eventually it was possibly to cross safely.
Our nemesis - the uncrossable burn
We kept the height, contouring round the western slope of Sgurr na Sgine and rising up towards the bealach. I was looking for a lochan and I was looking for a summit called Meallan Odhar. Unfortunately, I was looking for both of them in the wrong place. There is a lot of contour activity in that particular kilometre square on the 1:50000 and with the rain on my glasses and the wind, I was having trouble making sense of it. The image of the topography in my head was nothing like what I was glimpsing periodically through the cloud and rain. We were too high for Meallan Odhar and we had missed the lochan somehow. I got a position from the GPS and set a compass bearing for the lochan. The terrain still didn't make sense but our best shot was to believe the map and not my head.
Christine was also having a bad time, being blown over by the wind. In my urgency to get off this hill, I lost her twice in the space of a few minutes. It brought to mind the line about losing both parents from The Importance of Being Ernest. Following the bearing, I'd lost some height (reluctantly) and when I looked round I could see her above me, but encased as I was in black goretex, she couldn't see me, even from 50 yards away. Nor could she hear my shouts and whistles and I had lines from a King Crimson track playing in my head - "I talk to the Wind, My words are all carried away". Cue flute and melotron. It made a change from the theme to the A Team, which had been plaguing me since Glenfinnan.
I walked back up the hill and shouted something like, "follow me", which must have got translated by the wind as "stay there". Another compass check and I set off again towards this irritatingly illusive lochan. I found a line of fence posts heading downhill and followed them to the lochan, perched right on the bealach. Unfortunately this was precisely the direction I had just minutes before told Christine not to go, thinking it would lead into the wrong valley. I looked behind me. No-one was there. I waited a few moments for her to come out of the mist. Nothing. I left my pack by the lochan and fuelled by panic induced adrenaline, ran back up the line of fence posts. I found her sheltering behind a big rock. I took her pack and shouted to follow the fence posts and stop at my rucksack. I threw on her pack, pulled the straps tight and set off behind her. It was a monster. I was bent double against the wind and every gust threw me off balance.
We reached the col and swapped rucksacks. "You've got to burn this thing", I shouted but I don't think she heard me. I pointed to the valley and threw myself down the slope with only one thought in mind - to get off the hill (this time checking I was being followed). A couple of hundred feet down and the wind died away, the rain eased and the cloud lifted. Wiping my glasses I took another GPS reading and located us on the map. We were dropping into the wrong valley. And then the penny dropped and I understood what we should have been doing. In fact the Book says, go up to the bealach and keep to the left of the lochan and contour towards a line of large stones. Of course the Book was back in Sheffield. The stones are actually a rough wall with a track behind it. The track leads to Meallan Odhar, which is at the end of a spur running NE from the bealach. How obvious and simple it was now!
The Forcan Ridge from the bealach below Meallan Odhar
We climbed back up to the wall, and followed the track to Meallan Odhar, from where we descended to a col separating the A87 and the Allt a Choire Chaoil. On the way down we passed some lads who said they were going over the Forcan Ridge. Had it been a sunny day, we had considered this as an option but in these conditions it seemed madness. Later on I looked back and could just make out two of them on the ridge. I wouldn't have been surprised to them clinging by their fingertips as the wind blew them out like flags.
Our route down Allt a Choire Chaoil was largely trackless punctuated occasionally by some evidence that we were not the first to pass this way. The rain had set in again and it took an age to cover 2.5 km to the point where we should have been able to cross the Allt Undalain and pick up the land rover track leading to the campsite at Shiel Bridge. However, the gods weren't letting us off that lightly and no matter how long we stared at the problem, the water level didn't get any less than suicidal. So we continued down the eastern side of the river, which was trackless, boggy and rough, periodically taunted by the sight of the land rover track. We were starting to lose any sense of enjoyment today but pressed on with the promise of a warm, dry room booked at the Kintail Lodge Hotel.
We arrived in a very bedraggled state and I was slightly worried that when they saw us they might tell us they had lost the booking! Instead, they were splendidly welcoming and helpful and showed us to the drying room. A hot bath, hot meal and a few pints of Red Cuillin made the world a better place. Outside it was still raining.
9 miles and 2,400 ft for the day. Total distance from Glenfinnan: 46 miles
Neither of us took many photos that day.
Monday, 19 July 2010
North to the Cape - Day 4: Barrisdale to a Potting Shed
This was going to be an easy day. A stroll along the side of Loch Hourn to Kinloch Hourn, then a bit of a climb to camp below Sgurr na Sgine. It would be 8 miles and leave us in a good place for the following day's crossing into Glen Shiel, with a possible detour onto the Saddle. Well, without wishing to give away too much, it wasn't going to pan out quite like that.
We had a slow start and didn't get away from the bothy until 10am. It was still windy and showery but on brief occasions we got to see our shadows. The track out of Barrisdale was good. So good in fact that we missed the right turn to KLH and ended up on the small promontory where the loch narrows. Backtracking, we found a smaller path and set off on the first of a series of climbs, totalling 800 or 900 ft, which define the character of this stretch of the route. Brook and Hinchcliffe descibe the path down the side of Loch Hourn as 'laborious' and this seems to have informed every other commentator on this stretch of the walk.
Looking west along Loch Hourn
The way the book splits the route puts this stretch at the end of a day and the expectation of a flat walk by the loch side might put a downer on the day when this isn't realised. We were fresh, more of less, and I rather liked this section. We were also spurred on by the promise of a tea room in KLH, which we had learnt about from someone staying in the bothy.
The tea room didn't disappoint and after an hour (oh alright, an hour and a half), an extremely large and tasty corned beef sandwich and a huge pot of tea, we reluctantly set about the rest of the day's walk. Now whether it was lightheadedness due to a real cup of tea or the crossing of the previous three bealachs or some other factor, I can't say but a degree of numptiness set in and it lasted for the next 24 hours.
The tea room at Kinloch Hourn
The first episode was in trying to find the way out of KLH. A large sign clearly indicating the direction to Glen Elg was followed up by a number of closed gates into what looked like front gardens, a path along the beach to nowhere and a path higher up and parallel to the beach. We could see where we needed to be - up by some pylons - but there was no obvious way to reach it. So we set off up the side of a stream coming down the hillside, straight up the fall line, spurred on by the occassional evidence of others having passed this way, probably also lost!
It was steep and seemingly endless but eventually we reached the path and after a brief spell of immoderate language aimed towards people with locked gates, a sense of normality was restored. It even started raining again and the wind got up a bit and we felt much better.
The track to Sgurr na Sgine
The intention had been to camp by Allt a Choire Reidh, between Buidhe Bheinn and Sgurr na Sgine, somewhere near where the ford is marked on the map. On the one hand this was madness. It's a horrible place to camp. It's boggy and lumpy and windswept. I guess in better weather it might look more inviting but it would still be a bad place to put a tent. On the other hand, there is a useful garden shed there, which the Book describes as a shelter. I must have read about this back in Sheffield but I wasn't carrying the Book. I was carrying a book (which I never opened in the entire 7 days). I just wasn't carrying the Book. Anyway because I wasn't carrying the Book, I couldn't read that it wasn't intended as a place to sleep. So armed with this ignorance, and after evicting a large number of spiders, we spent the night there listening to the increasingly heavier rain and wind.
The potting shed
9.5 miles and 2,900 ft for the day. 37 miles from Glenfinnan.
We had a slow start and didn't get away from the bothy until 10am. It was still windy and showery but on brief occasions we got to see our shadows. The track out of Barrisdale was good. So good in fact that we missed the right turn to KLH and ended up on the small promontory where the loch narrows. Backtracking, we found a smaller path and set off on the first of a series of climbs, totalling 800 or 900 ft, which define the character of this stretch of the route. Brook and Hinchcliffe descibe the path down the side of Loch Hourn as 'laborious' and this seems to have informed every other commentator on this stretch of the walk.
Looking west along Loch HournThe tea room didn't disappoint and after an hour (oh alright, an hour and a half), an extremely large and tasty corned beef sandwich and a huge pot of tea, we reluctantly set about the rest of the day's walk. Now whether it was lightheadedness due to a real cup of tea or the crossing of the previous three bealachs or some other factor, I can't say but a degree of numptiness set in and it lasted for the next 24 hours.
The first episode was in trying to find the way out of KLH. A large sign clearly indicating the direction to Glen Elg was followed up by a number of closed gates into what looked like front gardens, a path along the beach to nowhere and a path higher up and parallel to the beach. We could see where we needed to be - up by some pylons - but there was no obvious way to reach it. So we set off up the side of a stream coming down the hillside, straight up the fall line, spurred on by the occassional evidence of others having passed this way, probably also lost!
It was steep and seemingly endless but eventually we reached the path and after a brief spell of immoderate language aimed towards people with locked gates, a sense of normality was restored. It even started raining again and the wind got up a bit and we felt much better.
The track to Sgurr na SgineThe intention had been to camp by Allt a Choire Reidh, between Buidhe Bheinn and Sgurr na Sgine, somewhere near where the ford is marked on the map. On the one hand this was madness. It's a horrible place to camp. It's boggy and lumpy and windswept. I guess in better weather it might look more inviting but it would still be a bad place to put a tent. On the other hand, there is a useful garden shed there, which the Book describes as a shelter. I must have read about this back in Sheffield but I wasn't carrying the Book. I was carrying a book (which I never opened in the entire 7 days). I just wasn't carrying the Book. Anyway because I wasn't carrying the Book, I couldn't read that it wasn't intended as a place to sleep. So armed with this ignorance, and after evicting a large number of spiders, we spent the night there listening to the increasingly heavier rain and wind.
The potting shedFor future reference, camp at KLH. Whilst it is possible for two people to spend a moderately comfortable night in the potting shed, it is not intended for that and camping up there would be hopeless.
9.5 miles and 2,900 ft for the day. 37 miles from Glenfinnan.
