A_Northerner
Active member
This is my entry for SUSS. It details a now infamous trip down P8, possibly my favourite cave in Derbyshire - though not my favourite trip as you will discover.
It's written in the style of Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, just to spice things up. Enjoy:
When, on Friday, Rostam calls,
you know your day is filled with crawls.
Not of drunkard, beast or babes,
the kind of crawl you find in caves.
I pack my gear and sit in wait,
He texts me: ?Right, we?ll do P8.?
Some ropes are stuffed into a sack,
I ask what time we will be back.
The response I get is non-committal,
my caving speed he won?t belittle.
The trip was meant for training Nat
and helping Rostam lose some fat;
the weight one gains during revision
is oft regarded with derision.
In the car and off we set,
as fast as Rostam?s car can get.
Sat in front: Rostam and Jack,
with Nat and Christine in the back.
Burning rubber, spraying gas,
barely making it up Winnats Pass.
Beside the farmyard we doth park
our spirits can?t sink like the Bismarck.
We change our clothes and don our kit,
then Rostam nips off for a sh*t.
He holds it in when there?s no cover,
missed this chance; there?ll be another.
Christine and I now cross the field.
We plan to rig with rope I wield.
No time to wait for dear old Nat,
she?s left some kit, we can?t have that!
The valley drops into a bowl
and finally we reach the hole.
The river?s wet with entrance dripping,
watch your feet; you?ll end up slipping.
Grace and speed we chase the stream
(This cave?s our favourite so we?re keen).
We make our way to Idiot?s Leap,
the water?s wet, the climb is steep.
I splish and splash down to the pitch,
a club has rigged it, I don't know which?
I still tie the ropes into the wall,
then abseil down the waterfall.
I call back up to Christine Tait
and hear ?I?m coming!? So I wait.
She slides with ease right down the rope,
we think of Rostam and we hope
That he has finally had his shite
For the first part of the cave is tight.
Discarding thoughts of Rostam?s arse
we continued with the farce.
Into the cave the pair delve deep,
the walls doth wind, the roof doth weep.
I rig and abseil pitch the second,
the water?s loud and so I beckoned
up to Christine and down she came,
I removed my harness, she did the same.
No more ropes and no traverses,
no free-climbs, so nothing worse is
left for us before the bottom.
Wait for the others? Nah just sod ?em.
Downstream sump and then the top,
we sit and chat then off we pop.
To the bottom pitch we soon get back,
we wait a while and then see Nat.
She motions that we must reverse,
her face is serious, her tone is terse.
Christine?s the first one to ascend
To help her climb I hold the end.
I prusik up and then de-rig,
the stream is stinking like a pig.
A powerful stench now fills my nose
I wonder what has decomposed.
From above, Rostam calls,
he yells; ?You must climb up the walls!
?The water?s bad! It?s dirty! Foul!
I had extrusions of the bowel!?
I try, and try, the walls are steep.
Resigning myself to plunge the deep,
I crawl through water, hand and knee
My nostrils filled with poo and wee.
The smell crescendos, then diminishes
by the grace of God it finally finishes,
Now Christine must go through Hell.
Alas, poor Rostam; he?s not well?
I looked at him, all gaunt and pale,
had he eaten bread or drunken ale?
Regardless of what was to blame,
to get out quickly was our aim.
Of his pain I had no idea,
but in his eyes, a look of fear.
We?ve been to Hell and back again,
he says ?Let?s leave?, I say ?Amen?.
I?m sure there?s naught in Beelzebub?s Lair,
that?s worse than what we faced back there.
Torture? Death? They?ve both got nowt
on Rostam?s gut when gluten's about.
So soon we make it to the surface.
The trip was done, but for what purpose?
Sure Nat had rigged a pitch or two,
and Rostam finally had a poo,
and Christine always likes P8,
and you could say Rostam ?lost some weight?.
I guess when all is said and done,
as we lay there in the sun,
in a convoluted way the trip was fine.
How very, very Byzantine.
The trip taught me a thing or two:
before caving go to the loo,
and if a trip is to be fun:
Don't go caving with the runs.
It's written in the style of Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, just to spice things up. Enjoy:
When, on Friday, Rostam calls,
you know your day is filled with crawls.
Not of drunkard, beast or babes,
the kind of crawl you find in caves.
I pack my gear and sit in wait,
He texts me: ?Right, we?ll do P8.?
Some ropes are stuffed into a sack,
I ask what time we will be back.
The response I get is non-committal,
my caving speed he won?t belittle.
The trip was meant for training Nat
and helping Rostam lose some fat;
the weight one gains during revision
is oft regarded with derision.
In the car and off we set,
as fast as Rostam?s car can get.
Sat in front: Rostam and Jack,
with Nat and Christine in the back.
Burning rubber, spraying gas,
barely making it up Winnats Pass.
Beside the farmyard we doth park
our spirits can?t sink like the Bismarck.
We change our clothes and don our kit,
then Rostam nips off for a sh*t.
He holds it in when there?s no cover,
missed this chance; there?ll be another.
Christine and I now cross the field.
We plan to rig with rope I wield.
No time to wait for dear old Nat,
she?s left some kit, we can?t have that!
The valley drops into a bowl
and finally we reach the hole.
The river?s wet with entrance dripping,
watch your feet; you?ll end up slipping.
Grace and speed we chase the stream
(This cave?s our favourite so we?re keen).
We make our way to Idiot?s Leap,
the water?s wet, the climb is steep.
I splish and splash down to the pitch,
a club has rigged it, I don't know which?
I still tie the ropes into the wall,
then abseil down the waterfall.
I call back up to Christine Tait
and hear ?I?m coming!? So I wait.
She slides with ease right down the rope,
we think of Rostam and we hope
That he has finally had his shite
For the first part of the cave is tight.
Discarding thoughts of Rostam?s arse
we continued with the farce.
Into the cave the pair delve deep,
the walls doth wind, the roof doth weep.
I rig and abseil pitch the second,
the water?s loud and so I beckoned
up to Christine and down she came,
I removed my harness, she did the same.
No more ropes and no traverses,
no free-climbs, so nothing worse is
left for us before the bottom.
Wait for the others? Nah just sod ?em.
Downstream sump and then the top,
we sit and chat then off we pop.
To the bottom pitch we soon get back,
we wait a while and then see Nat.
She motions that we must reverse,
her face is serious, her tone is terse.
Christine?s the first one to ascend
To help her climb I hold the end.
I prusik up and then de-rig,
the stream is stinking like a pig.
A powerful stench now fills my nose
I wonder what has decomposed.
From above, Rostam calls,
he yells; ?You must climb up the walls!
?The water?s bad! It?s dirty! Foul!
I had extrusions of the bowel!?
I try, and try, the walls are steep.
Resigning myself to plunge the deep,
I crawl through water, hand and knee
My nostrils filled with poo and wee.
The smell crescendos, then diminishes
by the grace of God it finally finishes,
Now Christine must go through Hell.
Alas, poor Rostam; he?s not well?
I looked at him, all gaunt and pale,
had he eaten bread or drunken ale?
Regardless of what was to blame,
to get out quickly was our aim.
Of his pain I had no idea,
but in his eyes, a look of fear.
We?ve been to Hell and back again,
he says ?Let?s leave?, I say ?Amen?.
I?m sure there?s naught in Beelzebub?s Lair,
that?s worse than what we faced back there.
Torture? Death? They?ve both got nowt
on Rostam?s gut when gluten's about.
So soon we make it to the surface.
The trip was done, but for what purpose?
Sure Nat had rigged a pitch or two,
and Rostam finally had a poo,
and Christine always likes P8,
and you could say Rostam ?lost some weight?.
I guess when all is said and done,
as we lay there in the sun,
in a convoluted way the trip was fine.
How very, very Byzantine.
The trip taught me a thing or two:
before caving go to the loo,
and if a trip is to be fun:
Don't go caving with the runs.
