turned up
in their cars, and then a local bus pulled up at the stop beyond the car park,
depositing a number of tourists on the roadside before driving off. They headed
up the steps, buying their tickets at the window.
When Dad came back, we queued up with
everyone else by the entrance, waiting for the next scheduled tour.
“I’ve agreed to go on a public tour first,”
he said, “just for a quick look. But then if there’s anything particular I want
to shoot, they’ll arrange for another guide to go back in with me and help
carry the right equipment and stuff. That way I can take my time getting the
lighting just right et cetera.”
“Okay.” My heart sank. It sounded like we
were going to be there for forever. I blew on my hands, trying to get some
warmth into them while the damp air plastered my hair in thick strands to my
face.
When our guide showed up, he began doling
out the regulation safety helmets from a crate.
“A large group today,” he smiled,
collecting another crateful. “You can always tell when the weather’s bad. All
the holiday-makers head underground.”
Listening to him chatting and joking with
the tourists, I thought he seemed pleasant enough. But not as cheerful and
funny as Luke would have been when he was a guide in the area. I bet the caves
would have been much more exciting with him.
And then I cringed, remembering his
reaction when I’d mentioned the waitress and her daughter. Why hadn’t I kept my
big mouth shut?
When everyone had a hardhat, the guide
began: “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Mike and I’d like to
welcome you to Hell’s Mouth, a fascinating group of passages and caverns formed
over the last million years.
“And how were they first formed?” He paused, looking round at us, but I sensed that
we weren’t supposed to answer him. “By ice-age glaciers melting, the water gradually
dissolving the porous limestone which was first laid down in this part of the
world 350 million years ago.”
He continued his set speech: “This is of
course a show cave, open to the general public, but still, it does involve a few tight squeezes; so if
anyone feels at all uncomfortable at any time, please just let me know.”
He led the way through the entrance, the
crowd shuffling after him in eager anticipation.
But, stepping through the metal gate, I
paused for a moment. I felt odd. Strangely nervous. Not about caving: I’d done
that loads of times before - and not just in show caves. No - it was the same
feeling I’d had on the journey there, only stronger now. Like some kind of
sixth sense. A vague notion of unease.
There wassomething disturbing about this place; I could feel it in the air.
And yet no one else seemed to notice it. Many
had already herded inside quite happily. And behind me, people were starting to
mutter about the delay, wondering why I wasn’t moving forwards.
So it was just me, then. Me and my
overactive imagination.
Breathing out slowly and deliberately, I
told myself not to be so stupid. It was just a cave for God’s sake, like the
many caves Dad had dragged me to. And then I took one step, and then another,
and I was inside Hell’s Mouth.
The already-low temperature dropped further
still as we made our way down the narrow passage. We were on a metal grid
walkway, following the natural path of a stream which we could hear gushing
beneath us. I shivered, trying to pull my coat collar further up my neck.
On either side of us, limestone walls glistened,
thick and pale, as if something had oozed down from above, congealing into a
heavy sludge. And in a few places it became more bulbous, its surface lumpy -
bubbled. It was as if we’d somehow stumbled onto the pages of a child’s
storybook - the tale of the magic cooking pot which boils over, covering the
land with a never-ending river of porridge.
Gently, I put my finger out and touched it.
It was very cold and hard and covered in a thin film of water. I shivered
again.
At
in their cars, and then a local bus pulled up at the stop beyond the car park,
depositing a number of tourists on the roadside before driving off. They headed
up the steps, buying their tickets at the window.
When Dad came back, we queued up with
everyone else by the entrance, waiting for the next scheduled tour.
“I’ve agreed to go on a public tour first,”
he said, “just for a quick look. But then if there’s anything particular I want
to shoot, they’ll arrange for another guide to go back in with me and help
carry the right equipment and stuff. That way I can take my time getting the
lighting just right et cetera.”
“Okay.” My heart sank. It sounded like we
were going to be there for forever. I blew on my hands, trying to get some
warmth into them while the damp air plastered my hair in thick strands to my
face.
When our guide showed up, he began doling
out the regulation safety helmets from a crate.
“A large group today,” he smiled,
collecting another crateful. “You can always tell when the weather’s bad. All
the holiday-makers head underground.”
Listening to him chatting and joking with
the tourists, I thought he seemed pleasant enough. But not as cheerful and
funny as Luke would have been when he was a guide in the area. I bet the caves
would have been much more exciting with him.
And then I cringed, remembering his
reaction when I’d mentioned the waitress and her daughter. Why hadn’t I kept my
big mouth shut?
When everyone had a hardhat, the guide
began: “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Mike and I’d like to
welcome you to Hell’s Mouth, a fascinating group of passages and caverns formed
over the last million years.
“And how were they first formed?” He paused, looking round at us, but I sensed that
we weren’t supposed to answer him. “By ice-age glaciers melting, the water gradually
dissolving the porous limestone which was first laid down in this part of the
world 350 million years ago.”
He continued his set speech: “This is of
course a show cave, open to the general public, but still, it does involve a few tight squeezes; so if
anyone feels at all uncomfortable at any time, please just let me know.”
He led the way through the entrance, the
crowd shuffling after him in eager anticipation.
But, stepping through the metal gate, I
paused for a moment. I felt odd. Strangely nervous. Not about caving: I’d done
that loads of times before - and not just in show caves. No - it was the same
feeling I’d had on the journey there, only stronger now. Like some kind of
sixth sense. A vague notion of unease.
There wassomething disturbing about this place; I could feel it in the air.
And yet no one else seemed to notice it. Many
had already herded inside quite happily. And behind me, people were starting to
mutter about the delay, wondering why I wasn’t moving forwards.
So it was just me, then. Me and my
overactive imagination.
Breathing out slowly and deliberately, I
told myself not to be so stupid. It was just a cave for God’s sake, like the
many caves Dad had dragged me to. And then I took one step, and then another,
and I was inside Hell’s Mouth.
The already-low temperature dropped further
still as we made our way down the narrow passage. We were on a metal grid
walkway, following the natural path of a stream which we could hear gushing
beneath us. I shivered, trying to pull my coat collar further up my neck.
On either side of us, limestone walls glistened,
thick and pale, as if something had oozed down from above, congealing into a
heavy sludge. And in a few places it became more bulbous, its surface lumpy -
bubbled. It was as if we’d somehow stumbled onto the pages of a child’s
storybook - the tale of the magic cooking pot which boils over, covering the
land with a never-ending river of porridge.
Gently, I put my finger out and touched it.
It was very cold and hard and covered in a thin film of water. I shivered
again.
At
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