I am here recording the events that transpired recently for posterity. It was with great anticipation that, together with Wenders and Loweded (A millionaire and patron of the arts from North Wales) we crossed the county boundary and in doing so left the relative safety of Cumbria for the dark unknown of deepest Yorkshire. Almost as soon as we left the relative safety of Cumbria behind, the skies darkened, the air becoming oppressive with an air of foreboding. Loweded tried in vain to lighten the mood with a rendition of ‘Ten Green Bottles’ in his finest choir voice. But barely two bottles had fallen before his valiant effort faded….
Would anyone be at the appointed rendezvous? Had they fallen prey to one of those single track lanes that go for mile upon mile through gate after gate to finally, frustratingly terminate at some remote farmyard? These were my thoughts as the trusty MEVOD carried us into the village of Gunnerside one Sunday morning in March. As I peered through the tinted one way window, I could see no one ‘Loitering Suspiciously’ as were the instructions. Only walkers and cyclists. It all looked too innocent. After a short wait just outside of the village, I volunteered to go on a scouting mission to see what I could find. I felt suitably confident, disguised in my wellies as I strode into the village glancing sideways here and there as frightened eyes disappeared back behind falling curtains. I arrived at the car park. Aha! Two victims. Ah yes, I thought, the big guy Mr M, from Manchester with a Phd in soldering and also Rumsden from somewhere in the frozen north who claims to be the hardest man in the world. I radioed back to the vehicle that it was safe to enter the village and soon the troop was all together and preparing for the coming expedition up into deepest, darkest Gunnerside Gill.
Unfortunately the mule dealer I had promised free beer to the previous evening had failed to appear and so it looked as though would have to walk. We put a brave face on things, but we all secretly held apprehensive worries about whether we would in fact return in one piece. As we set off in single file up the gill, lightening bolts flashed across the sky, thunder bellowed fearsomely across the dales sounding alarmingly like cries of ‘DOOOOMED ….. DOOOOOMED’….
The freezing wind howled around us as we wound our way slowly but surely towards the portal of the Bunton Level. ‘By Gum, its bloody cold’ said Mr M as we shivered our way along the footpath ‘Aye, it’s a rum do’ sighed Rumsden, not wholly sympathetic but thinking it best not to inform the rest of us that he was beginning to find it rather warm.
Finally, we arrived and without delay, headed into the safety of the mine away form the elements outside.
We exited the mine and sought refuge from the icy wind in the remains of an old mine building. Whilst Wenders and I consumed our meagre rations, Rumsden changed into his wetsuit in preparation for the next mine, knocking away the icicles from his beard with a flourish. We bagan to wonder where Loweded and Mr.M had got to. We looked out of the building to see them wandering off down the track looking pensively at the large boulders poised above on the steep banks that lined the path. The howling wind carried away our attempts to attract their attention, our shouts lost in the gale. Wenders stood up and strode purposefully to the doorway, her flaming red hair billowing wildly as she put fingers to mouth and produced a furious banshee like whistle of ear shattering intensity. ‘That’s stopped the buggers’ she laughed and sure enough, there they were, as two rabbits caught in headlights. To spare them the trek back we packed up and speedily made our way down the path to join them, Rumsden with his westsuit open to the waist leading the way crying ‘onwards !’ , his fist raised if defiance as the elements tried their damndest to hold us back.
Snowflakes swirled around us as we waded across the swollen river almost getting washed away, so strong was the flow and made our way to the entrance shaft of the Sir Francis Level. One by one, we then clambered down the swaying wire ladder and into the deep, dark, quiet waters of the mine. We were drawn inexorably onwards for mile after mile of ever deepening water until At one particularly deep section the floor had suddenly disappeared and although Mr.M and myself were able to hold our noses just above the water, a loud commotion from behind indicated that others were not so fortunate. When finally Flaming Red Wenders, Rumsden & Loweded arrived I could see the water had completely enveloped them. ‘Bloody Foreigners’ wailed Loweded, looking like he had just won a lemon earting contest. ‘You tall blokes have got a lot to answer for’ moaned Rumsden, looking like he had eaten too many pickled onions. Finally we were forced to abandon our attempts at walking and resorted to the breast stroke until the waters finally shallowed and we arrived soaked and cold at the fabulous engine room in all of its glory.
Our mission accomplished and emboldened by our successes we decided it was time to make our departure whilst we were all still in one piece. And we began the long trail back along the deep flooded miles of the mine level, across the raging torrent and down through the thick forest on our way back to the village. On our way we passed two plump ladies in high heeled shoes. ‘Ast thou bin Potholin?’ asked the elder of the two. ‘No’ informed Rumsden, ‘Mining’. ‘Ooohh that sounds interesting’ she replied. ‘Aye’ I said as I passed by.
Any resemblance of the above to the personages of Mr.Mike, SimonRL, Wenders and RR is purely a figment of your imagination.
The Colonel.
STANDBY FOR ACTION!!!!...