Thursday, 18 December 2014

Moving back to the Highlands

So a much anticipated phonecall came last week, and the outcome is that we will be moving back to the Highlands in a few weeks time. 

When Nicole and I left the Cairngorms to live in the Peak District in April, I feared somehow we'd never get the opportunity to move back up North. As it happens our time here has turned out to be short but sweet, and an overwhelmingly positive thing. There is so much in the Highlands I will look at with a new appreciation, and with a perspective I'd started to lose.

Seven months in the Peak District has been a great experience and I feel like I've done it properly - going caving, living on a farm and working at The Old Nag's Head. Solo caving and potholing has taken me places in body and mind I'd never imagined existed, and I'm eager to sample some of the wild caving opportunities in the Highlands.

However I can't wait to get back to the mountains and to climbing. I failed to be inspired by climbing on the Peak gritstone edges and I discovered caving instead, but I'm itching to get back on the big mountain routes in the middle of nowhere. I should be back in the Highlands by the end of January, so I'll still catch a good chunk of the winter season. See you up there!


Friday, 31 October 2014

Ogof y Daren Cilau - caving in South Wales

 Epocalypse Way, Ogof y Daren Cilau.

At over 28,000m long (17 miles), Ogof y Daren Cilau is one of the greatest cave systems in Britain. It features arguably the most difficult entrance crawl in the UK, and the passages beyond are amongst the most remote and awe-inspiring places in the country.

The Restaurant at the End of the Universe actually exists - it is one of two subterranean camps in a cave so big that multi-day trips are required to reach its furthest extremities. A mild obsession with the idea of a solo trip into this cave has defined the last month for me, the idea of being able to experience such a place too much to resist.

The 517m long entrance crawl has been described as "like doing 1000 push-ups on one arm whilst inching forward in freezing cold water". Considerable stamina was going to be required as was a fairly stoic mental attitude, as you have to endure this crawl a second time in order to exit the cave. At least four squeezes have to be passed in both directions in order to get through. Lots of upper body training and lots of caving over the summer was hopefully going to pay off.
"The Silver Goddess". An iconic formation and one of the thousands of crystal formations found throughout the cave.

I slid into the entrance of the flat-out crawl in the perfect mood - totally free of fear, expectation or pressure and aware that my existence for the next while would be crawling. After 80m I entered The Vice, a squeeze considerably more physical than it's namesake in Giant's Hole but not as tight as I was prepared for. First obstacle down.

Relentless crawling on my right side for the next hour took me round endless tight bends and over boulders, the passage almost never wide enough to let me crawl with both arms on my front. Long sections of rifts required a tiring half-crawl, half-crouch approach. I hummed music in my head and just crawled and crawled. Occasional spots that let me stand up never lasted long, but progress felt less strenuous than I'd been expecting. Was the fearsome reputation of this entrance crawl justified?

The final squeeze in the most difficult entrance crawl in the UK

After a long while I reached the bit that I thought might shut me down -  The Calcite Squeezes. I'd entered the cave with the strict principle that if I had doubts about these squeezes when I saw them I'd turn around without attempting them. The first hole looked intimidating on first sight, but I was definitely lean enough to fit through. The second and third were tighter and I had to carefully plan my moves before I entered them. Yet more sideways shuffling then a final squeeze which I had to take my helmet off in order to fit through, and I popped out of the crawl.

The contrast with what I emerged into could not have been greater. The entrance crawl might be tight and constricted, but the miles of passages beyond are huge, humbling places containing some of the most beautiful natural wonders in the country. Everything suddenly seemed so big. Was I meant to still feel quite fresh after the labours of the crawl? Excitedly I started down Jigsaw Passage, the knowledge that many miles of massive passageways lay beyond.

On the survey, Big Chamber Nowhere Near the Entrance actually does look pretty close to the entrance. So it felt to take quite a while to get there, a tight down-climb and another squeeze the only obstacles interrupting a long stretch of walking passage. I signed into the logbook in the Big Chamber and took note that I was the only person inside Britain's 5th longest cave. 

Turning right here would have taken me into The Time Machine, the largest known passageway in the UK, and the way on to Hard Rock Cafe and The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. Chambers and passages named on the theme of space and time covered the survey. The feeling of scale there and then felt overwhelming.

Epocalypse Way is huge and impressive, the roof high above and the walls scalloped from when a river last flowed here, tens or hundreds of thousands of years ago. Cracked mud deposits on the floor remain undisturbed from millennia past. And this is where I found The White Company, one of the most impressive arrays of crystal formations yet discovered.

The White Company.

The White Company.

The White Company.

These weren't like the huge stalactite or column formations found in Yorkshire potholes, these were mainly only a few inches across. But they were beautiful beyond words. I felt a strong urge to stroke them or to feel if they were freezing cold like ice, but firmly kept my distance from these perfect geological marvels. The way they seemed to glow at me out of the darkness was mesmerising, and each formation seemed more improbable than the last.

Epocalypse Way continued tall and wide. Being able to walk for such distances in a place of such vast dimensions underground is quite a surreal experience. After a while a short climb up a rope took me into Urchin Oxbow, and here the crystals became frankly unbelievable. It looked like some bizarre coral formation had grown all over the roof and walls, "urchins" of calcite sprouting out everywhere. Some distance later I found the famous "Silver Goddess" standing on the floor, an anthodite growing out of a column giving it the appearance of a silver winged figure.

Urchin formations.

Fatigue was starting to make itself known. The thought of the return trip had been ever-present in the cave, and this was going to be the test of my mental stamina. My return back to the entrance series was uneventful, and felt just as long as it had on the way out.

The reputation of the entrance crawl as arguably the hardest in the UK felt far more justified on the way out. Doing it twice in a day is indeed quite a test. The Calcites Squeezes felt a bit harder but not much so, but the relentless pushing along with my right arm never seemed to end. Shuffling my bag along in front of me was becoming very tiresome, the only relief being in the deeper sections of water when I could float it forward instead. Finally I was back at The Vice which was challenging on my tired arms, and soon after I entered the flat-out crawl into the entrance pool. "The delights of reaching this point on the return journey cannot be over-emphasised" says my description and it is not wrong.

Today, reflecting on what is surely one of my biggest ever solo ventures, I can't help but wonder if I'll return to Daren Cilau one day. Many cavers declare "never again" after the entrance crawl, but how can only one trip ever do such a place justice?


Wednesday, 8 October 2014

The day I didn't solo S.C Gully

The one and only Stob Coire nan Lochain, Glencoe. S.C Gully is the steep central gully.

The first of two reflective pieces on my experiences of Scottish winter climbing whilst living and working at the Clachaig Inn in Glencoe between 2009 and 2013.

It is near impossible to describe what it is like to spend a winter climbing season living in Glencoe. During the 4 winters I spent living at the Clachaig, my every day realities were so far removed from what can be called normal that looking back on it now is a slightly dreamlike experience. If I wasn't actually out climbing, normality would be watching avalanches from my bedroom window, checking the weather forecast ten times-a-day, strolling five minutes from the door to look at frozen waterfalls or calling out mountain rescue for yet another overdue team on the Aonach Eagach.

All my winters spent in Glencoe were unforgettable but the 2012/13 season was the big one. Good conditions could be found somewhere almost continuously between November and May, and high pressure and cold air arrived in February not to leave for weeks. The time was right to aim high and try to achieve some long held ambitions.

Of all Glencoe's winter climbs, to me SC Gully in Coire nan Lochain is the most beautiful. Arguably the finest line in the Glen, it had me hooked the first time I read W.H Murray's account in his timeless masterpiece. It had also gained quite a mean reputation at the Clachaig during my time there after two colleagues bailed off it on two seperate occasions. One amusing incident in particular springs to mind from the 2009/10 season. A group of climbers who used to frequent the Clachaig had got roaringly drunk in the Boots Bar on a saturday night, woken up profoundly hungover and proceeded to take repeated falls off the crux of SC Gully onto a dodgy peg. They staggered into the bar later that day to be greeted by my brother Alex who was still working there at the time. "What can I get for you?" asked Alex. "Got any valium?", they replied.

February 2013, Glencoe
A year of focused hillrunning in the glen had brought my fitness to a totally new level. I could happily do a swift ascent of Ben Nevis and the CMD Arete, run the Aonach Eagach immediately afterwards, and wake up the next morning fresh as a daisy. I could summit the Buachaille in 50 minutes via a climbing route, and comfortably run up Munros in a 3 hour break in an 11 hour shift. Running up Glencoe's steepest corries became an almost daily occurance, and with time I felt like I could float uphill with an ease that at times almost frightened me.

I was on the form of my life that winter, on-sight soloing Grade III's all over the place, often on no sleep or after yet another wild party in the Clachaig staff bothy. Everything felt so smooth, and I felt able to move through the mountains almost effortlessly. Ice climbing conditions were amazing and everyone seemed to be having their best ever season. I was going to near ridiculous lengths to climb the routes I wanted, on occasions driving 200 mile round trips to go climbing before a 3pm shift in the pub. The time arrived when I realised I was going to attempt to solo SC Gully.

A normal day for February 2013.

The idea, once seeded, grew to have deep significance for me. I weighted the idea with a label - my abilities would be measured by whether or not I could solo that route. Would climbing SC Gully, solo and on-sight, somehow put me more at peace? Would it quench that irrepressible thirst I had to be climbing everything all the time? Would it prove me to be who I wanted to be? I believed that it would. It would be the big one to top off everything else.

27th February 2013
Another freezing dawn, another cloudless sky, and another time trudging up that bloody path into Coire nan Lochain. It could have been one of dozens of winter mornings I'd had on that path, but things were very different this time. I had run up that path more often than I could remember, walked up it with a heavy sack to more days on Bidean than I can recall. It was part of my every day existence. Yet that morning it felt a bit like I was walking towards the most important test of my life.

I glanced at the streak of ice flowing down the classic rock route Quiver Rib, thinking of the first time I'd done it, 4am one summer solstice morning. I felt like a different person this morning, serious and grim. Why could I not get in the right frame of mind? The fear of turning around empty-handed was worse than the fear of what would happen if I messed up on the route. I wanted it so badly.

Looking towards S.C Gully at dawn. The left hand gully.

The corrie bowl opened out around me, the temperature notably dropped and everything became much brighter- the same way it always does up there. I stopped to put on my helmet before I could actually see into the gully, afraid I'd see it and want to turn around.

Five minutes later and the pit in my stomach was becoming a bottomless hole. There's something about that unusual kink in the ice in SC Gully which makes it intimidating. But I set about it, and charged into the first pitch. It felt steep, steeper than I was liking. I started to shake, but not from muscle pump. My arms felt clumsy somehow, my axes unusual in my hands. My crampon points bit into the sticky ice but didn't convince me as they should. I stopped in the tiny bay before the crux ramp and looked upwards with the inevitable dawning on me. Rarely have I felt so tormented as I did right then. 

I had undoubtably soloed harder pitches in winter, in worse weather and in more serious situations. The route was in better than perfect condition and was there for the taking. But there and then, in the moment I knew I'd measure myself by, I could not justify it. All the thoughts that you have to not think to survive as a soloist came at me at once.

Looking up S.C Gully in perfect conditions.

Downclimbing the first pitch, I felt a numbness I'd not known before in the mountains. This was everything I'd feared. Almost without feeling, I went on to climb Langsam on Summit Buttress, and the possible second ascent of Odyssey (II/III*) on Bidean nam Bian. Not a breath of wind touched the summits and the sky was the deepest blue, and it was one of those days that many mountaineers will never witness in years of climbing in Scotland. 

Dawn light on the Ben, seen from beneath the route.

A few days later Isi Oakley and Roddy Murray climbed the route as a team, and told me that the way the ice had formed meant the pitch I'd climbed was in fact the crux, not the ramp above as usual. The hardest bit was behind me when I decided to retreat.

They climbed it the same day that I soloed Taxus (III***), the classic ice gully of the Southern Highlands and the same grade as SC Gully. My lasting impression of that ascent is one of calm and peacefulness, of enjoying great climbing in a beautiful place. Fear hadn't come into it. As Isi and Roddy told me about their day, surprisingly I can honestly say that I didn't feel the slightest envy.

So what did I learn from all this? Very little, at the time. My winter season continued for another 6 weeks and I rarely gave thought to anything apart from what what I was going to climb next. My failure was soon swept under the carpet and forgotten while I hungrily ate up a rare banquet of winter routes that seemed to just keep on coming.

I soloed about 150 winter climbs in the 5 years I lived in the Highlands, and it still didn't seem like enough. I'd done most of the big summer mountaineering routes and the majority of the Munros in a 2 year period, many of which numerous times. Now, 6 months since leaving the mountains, the perspective brought about by distance is very different. It is not the fleeting glory of climbing successes that I miss nor the adrenaline rush of pulling through the hard bits. The freezing silent dawns, the glisten of first light on snow, the otherworldly beauty of the sun rising over a cloud inversion - these are the things that come to me in daydreams now. I miss the perfect starscapes and the wild views, the beauty and the vastness of it all. Would anything have been different if I had continued to the top of S.C Gully? Not a thing, at least not anything that matters. I place more value now on the times I stopped and stared, than on any day when ambition got me to the top of a climb but turned me blind in the process.


Thursday, 25 September 2014

The Kingsdale Master Cave

Abseiling the pitch into the impressive Kingsdale Master Cave

My solo trip down Magnetometer Pot two weeks ago had been a testing experience. At times I'd been briefly convinced I'd bitten off more than I could chew, and it had taken a fair degree of control to stop doubt from dragging me straight back out the entrance shaft.

During my time as a climber in Scotland I had more experiences like that than I can name. After a year or so of soloing, I discovered the importance of taking a reflective step back after the days when I'd got scared. Why had I felt that way? Had I pushed it too far? Often the perspective gained from doing an easier trip would help clarify things.

My descent into The Kingsdale Master Cave was to do just that. A week on from Magnetometer, a high-quality but un-stressful caving day was needed.

A few months back I'd been left totally awe-struck by a descent into another Kingsdale pothole, the formations amongst the most beautiful natural wonders I'd ever seen (at the time). A trip into the Master Cave would feature almost nothing similar, instead it would be about seeing an absolutely immense subterranean river passage.

The pitch into the Master Cave. The water behind me disappears and doesn't appear again until 2000m downstream at Keld Head.

In the perfect streamway of the Master Cave. The roof a long way above my head.

Many cavers experience their first "duck" in the Valley Entrance to the master cave, a low passageway almost flooded to the roof. After a few of the other ducks I've done recently, this one wasn't anything more than interesting. Hundreds of metres of easy stooping passage, and suddenly I was at the top of a 7m SRT pitch.

Abseiling the pitch delivered me into the streamway of the Kingsdale Master Cave, and I was not disappointed. This is the largest subterranean river passage I've seen to date. I'm ashamed to admit how seldomly I stop to appreciate just how old these underground places are, but the sense of it down here was humbling. How long had it taken for such a huge trench to be cut by the water? 

Approaching the Master Junction.

Three hours later and I was in a similarly impressive but extremely different cave passage. Crackpot was wall-to-wall beautiful decorations, all leading nicely to the climax of the iconic column that defines the cave. For the passage to be so large and so obviously old, what must lie beyond the currently explored short length of cave?

Photos are more appropriate to do Crackpot justice

In the iconic Column Chamber in Crackpot, Swaledale.

"Dripping flowstone" formation in Crackpot.

An impressive array of decorations.

Blade and stalagmite.

Straw stalactites, flowstone, carrot formations.

Monday, 22 September 2014


 The first pitch of P8 (Jackpot), Castleton. An extremely fun solo descent of this Peak District classic.

The first time I ever climbed Tower Ridge, I remember thinking afterwards that it was so enjoyable it could almost have been "designed". A varied series of interesting obstacles have to be overcome in order to reach a memorable finale. I find that often the best routes follow this basic pattern, whether they be above or below ground.

P8 (Jackpot) is a Peak District classic, a multi-pitch SRT descent down a superb cascading streamway. Like Tower Ridge it is a popular trip for a reason. While most potholes have an amount of nasty grovelling in tight and squalid passages, P8 is pretty much uninterupted enjoyment. 

The surface streams sinks straight into the entrance of P8 so it always a wet cave, often extremely so. A solo first trip was going to need settled weather, and yet again my day off coincided with high pressure. I've been in the Peak District almost 6 months now, and I still can't get used to the lack of rain.

From the word go I was in a "Crabwalk" style passage, so remarkably similar to its namesake in Giant's Hole just a few hundred metres away across the valley. Idiot's Leap was the first obstacle, a 2.5m vertical climb down a cascade which was rigged with an in-situ rope. It looked a bit more tricky from above than I'd expected, but it was easy on the way down and on the return trip.

Mud Hall. Impressive, but nothing compared to the next chamber.

Very soon I turned a sharp bend and the stream plunged down through a "window" into a chamber - the First Pitch. This was a wet abseil down the waterfall, and 30m downstream from the base of the chamber I was quickly at the head of the Second Pitch. The chamber beneath this pitch was larger and some big flowstone cascades eluded to what lay beyond.

I had a lengthy explore down some of the many passages and routes that make up this part of the cave, before I emerged into the large and impressive Mud Hall. The scramble down from this brought me into a beautiful stream canyon, which I carefully traversed above by bridging on each wall about 4m above the water.

The streamway just before T'Owd Man's Rift.

T'Owd Man's Rift, the limit of the cave for non-divers, provides a magnificent finale. It reminded me of a subterranean Deep South Gully, a tilted cleft of giant proportions. The flowstone formations here are extremely fine, and my jaw dropped to see flood sediment on stalactites dozens of feet above the current level of the stream.

A huge flowstone cascade in T'Owd Man's Rift. 

Back along the traverses, through Mud Hall and the passageways, back up the two pitches and Idiot's Leap. And I had so much fun I came back and did it all again 3 days later.


Thursday, 11 September 2014

Magnetometer Pot

Beautiful formations one past the arduous crawls in Magnetomer Pot, Fountains Fell.

Onsight solo trips that have felt close to my psychological maximum have often provided some of the most profound experiences I've ever had, and so it was with my descent of Magnetomer Pot yesterday.

No single crux of the pothole taken in isolation was particularly difficult, but stacked one after another collectively they proved to be quite a test. Staying focused on each obstacle individually, whilst remaining mindful of having suitable reserves of strength for the return trip was an interesting balancing act.

Perhaps the enjoyable entrance shaft put me a little bit too at ease? Half way down I rigged a deviation on the pitch to allow a good free-hang to the floor, a straightforward bit of SRT, and I suppose I wasn't quite fired up for a struggle.

The entrance pitch.

But the first obstacles appeared almost immediately, a couple of squeezes that hinted at things to come. Another squeeze down a rift following a rope delivered me at the top of a 15ft climb down a chimney, and this caused my first moment of doubt. It was all pretty tight and confusing, and the structure of things beneath the chimney wasn't too clear. Ten minutes of straining my neck followed, testing various handholds and convincing myself I'd be able to climb back up this crux on the return.

Finally I committed, but from the bottom of the chimney it got even tighter. Two technical moves round an S-bend preceeded a body-sized tube, and the continuation was narrowing further and entering water. A word with myself was required to proceed.

By now I was left with no doubts about the nature of this pothole. The obstacles I'd come through were pushed to the back of my mind as I embarked upon a 620ft long crawl. Totally flat-out to begin with, the aptly named "Wet Crawl" did what it promised and very nearly turned me around. It was like the Giant's Windpipe but almost 4 times as long. The only relief it gave was that dragging myself along became marginally easier as I could very slightly float along at points.

Why did it seem so long? Again I had to have a quiet word with myself. Getting out of the water was a relief, but only rewarded with 300ft of crawling over painful cobbles.

The larger passageways have some pristine and sizeable stalactites. This one about 5ft long.

To say it was worth it for what came next would be an understatement - The River Styx is the most incredible passage. Waist deep wading through this creeping and slow river was amazing, the roof a beautiful pallet of colours ordained with occasional large formations. The size of everything increased with each step and the pothole seemed a different place.

Formations above The River Styx.

Near Holes Junction.

Easy Street was what I'd come to photograph. This is one of the most beautiful sections of cave I've seen to date, and everything shining the brighter when I thought of the contrast with the arduous passageways I'd come through to get there. But I couldn't linger too long. I was cold and had the return trip to cope with.

Reaching the relief and dryness of Easy Street. One pitch, 4 squeezes, a 15ft chimney and 620ft of crawling to get here.

Stunning gour pools in Easy Street.

The return along the crawls was quite painful with the absence of elbow pads, but everything felt easier on the way back until I got to the bottom of the 15ft chimney. Footholds were non-existent and upwards progress was a battle. I was back on the crux of the North-East Ridge of Aonach Beag, twisting myself into contortions and using a full-body jam to get to the top of the damn thing. Adrenaline got me there in the end. So long as nothing went wrong on the entrance pitch then I had it in the bag.

It wasn't until I was unclipping the pitch deviation that I realised...6 weeks ago I've never even heard of Magnetometer Pot.


Thursday, 4 September 2014

Hagg Gill Pot

The 45ft entrance pitch to the superb Hagg Gill Pot

You go through an abrupt transition between worlds when you abseil into a pothole. Not only does the environment around you change instantly, but all the complications which fill the air on the surface become replaced with thoughts of technical and navigational logistics. 

The change was more apparent to me than ever before yesterday as I dropped down the 45ft entrance shaft into Hagg Gill Pot. The quiet calm of Langstrothdale was the scene of some of my happiest childhood memories, hunting for fossils in the river during the summer holidays. The world I was abseiling into is something I could barely have imagined as a kid, one of ropes and karabiners and jumars. I laughed at just how much more involved my means of having fun are now.

A few metres down the entrance shaft you have to squeeze through a constriction before the pitch opens out into a nice free-hang into a large chamber. I was a touch apprehensive about this, but after rigging the rope carefully to avoid abrasion points I set about tackling the obstacle. It gave me pause for thought, but in the end it involved less swearing than I'd be prepared for and I continued quickly to the bottom of the pitch.

The upstream passage became an instant mimic of The Crabwalk in Giant's Hole, but (thank god) not of such endless length. I knew to expect fine formations and some elaborate speleothems, but I was stunned speechless when this narrow passage opened out into a chamber containing a 40ft high stalactite column. I've not seen anything else to compare.

The very bottom of a 40ft high stalactite column.

The formations continued, sometimes forcing me to grovel in the stream below to avoid touching their pristine surfaces. A long section of narrow passageway was adorned by an incredible coating of helictites, each one of them very small but collectively a quite astonishing thing to see. My movements were slow and considered, terrified of brushing against them and ending their ancient growth.

Thousands of twisted and sharp helictites cover the walls of some of the upstream passages.

A fixed rope climb and more stream passageway took me into a huge, reactor-like chamber with multiple passages going off in different directions. I was in here for a while searching for the way on, eventually climbing up over some van-sized boulders to discover the correct continuation.

An upwards squeeze through a slot delivered me into a pool underneath a beautiful and tall waterfall, and above this some climbing brought me to my objective. The straw chamber was a hauntingly beautiful place, some of the pencil-width stalactites almost 9ft in length and hanging down over two seperate grottos on each side. Places like this blow my mind with their sheer weirdness and otherwordly quality.

The radiant beauty of the straw chamber hidden upstream.

Straw stalactites, many over body-height in length.

Going back past my rope coming down the entrance shaft, I spent an hour or so exploring the other streamway, and enjoying the multiple short climbs up waterfalls. I stopped and reflected on how all this was actually just indulging the child that remains in me, but brushed this away as I started the serious business of reascending my rope to the surface.


Thursday, 14 August 2014

Bagshawe Cavern

 Abseiling "The Dungeon" in Bagshawe Cavern.

The glorious summer of endless sunny days couldn't last forever, although it had started to seem like it might. The long drought finally broke on Saturday, the rain falling with intent onto parched ground. I vividly recalled the end of summer 2006 in Suffolk, standing outside to enjoy the freshness and relief of the first rainfall after a 6 week heatwave. It was different as the downpours started on Saturday, instead I felt frustrated that summer couldn't just maintain its status quo for a good while longer.

As with everything else, the deeper I get into caving the more I realise there is to do. Each week my knowledge expands a bit more and my to-do list grows longer. And the bulk of that to-do list is made far more difficult when it's raining. If anything I'm even more impatient than I was a few years ago, and I seem to be constantly eager to be doing everything all the time. 

How wet would it be underground? Would three days of downpours have had that much effect on caves dry from two months of sun and warmth? My plan was set for an "all weather" cave system in Yorkshire, but then an email confirming permission to visit Bagshawe Cavern changed all that. I've wanted to do a trip down Bagshawe for a while - an access-controlled cave only a few miles from home. But how much water would I find down there?

Crossing "The Lake". This waist-deep section is a permanent wet feature.

Many years ago the dry upper-series of Bagshawe was run as a show-cave, and the trip to the "end" at the Hippodrome is very straightforward. It was the harder and more interesting Lower Series that I had my eyes on however. 

The crux of the trip is The Dungeon, a short SRT pitch to reach the start of the lower series. Part of me had been wondering if it might be too wet, so it was with a bit of surprise to find it totally dry when I peered down from above. So I abseiled down the pitch to see what lay beyond.

Some muddy crawling brought me to a beautiful chamber with some impressive flowstone cascades. Still no sign of any flowing water! I spent a while photographing the formations, aware that the next section was going to be cold and wet.

The beautiful chamber where Agony Crawl enters at roof level.

The Lake is waist-deep with a low roof. As I entered the water I started to have second thoughts, the passage looking much lower than I'd anticipated. But I pressed on and inhaled sharply as the cold water went up to my chest. It wasn't as bad as it looked, and all I could think was just how more uncomfortable the Giant's Windpipe had been a couple of weeks ago.

Flowstone array.

1000ft of varied passage followed, but still no sign of any flowing water! Clearly it will take more to reverse the effects of the long drought. I reached my objective, returned by the same route and jumared up my rope hanging down The Dungeon.

Extensive formations in the Lower Series.

What else will the summer allow me to do before it reaches its final fling?