Caving

(An experiment in descriptive prose)

I’ve just replaced the CD in the player. “Idea of North” – a cappella and finger snaps in soft, relaxing jazz. Music with real tunes, and beats content to keep time and to play a part in a much larger whole, without the need to dominate and control. Being on holiday is such a restful change.

Alice and I went caving today. It was more of a whim than a plan. We were passing the entrance on our way to looking for something to do and decided to stop. As we pulled into the gravel road I was amazed how different and commercial caving had become. When I was there more than ten years ago there was only a simple, locked gate and a warning sign. Although I’m sure we could’ve jimmied the lock, we moved on to some other cave for classical guitar and semi-spiritual experience. Eddie Brickel, actually, I think it was. Me, I’m a part of your circle of friends…

But today was different: toilets to the right, reception straight ahead. Reception? At a cave? Through the portal cut into a simple wooden shed, a woman greeted us with a genuine smile, honestly asking if she could help. I explained we were interested in the entering the cave, and she ran us through the procedure: hard hats; torches; no food or drink. Keep to the path; don’t touch the walls. Fine, I said, and she grabbed a pen to write a receipt for our entry. Since when did you have to pay to enter a cave?

The path to the gate was easy enough; the steps further down into the cave a little steeper. At the platform were signs. One reminded us of the rules, one had a map, and one described the cave’s opening. Go left first, she had said. There are more natural light holes. It gives your eyes times to adjust. So down we went, to the left.

The next platform showed us the abseiling area. A round wooden target, placed somewhat beneath a gap in the ceiling, barely large enough to scramble through. The dark further down started to encroach on the faint light our torches threw out.

The paths were wooden and steel, and they made little sound beneath our sneakers. At times the waist high hand rails left the path and it’s occupants to their own devices, only to catch up later when (ironically) the going became easier. The rails sank with the ceiling, at times only knee height, if that. When crouched, they weren’t much use, except perhaps to sit on and admire the view.

At first the torches seemed useless: far too dim to be of any real use in the dark. But as our eyes adjusted, the faint electric light grew to be appreciated, even loved; their power magnified by the absolute lack of any other source. How drenched we are in illumination!

After scrambling up and down, high and low, we reached the civilized cave’s end. A small, static merry-go-round of benches invited in the darkness. Yet another sign echoed my thoughts: Sit. Turn off the light. Listen. Experience the originality of a cave.

The utter pitch is hard to describe. Even black paint has a shine and reflection that a cave surpasses. Closing your eyes brought only a physical change – the sensation of eyes being shut – there was no difference in their record. “Blackness”, “darkness” do not describe it adequately, such was the complete lack of light. Eyes became superfluous.

But sound was constant. The only way to navigate, to place yourself amongst your surrounds, was by the ever “drip, drop”, as stalactites edged their way towards their stalagmite children. Here. Now behind. To the left or the right. The sounds of the droplets pierced the darkened silence like a magician stabbing swords into a box containing his quietly terrified assistant. Each dropped alone – not to be repeated for hours, perhaps days, as the water seeped through the soil and rock above. In between, the dark engulfed all other senses.

Turning on the torches we were eager to see the cascade of droplets, as though the sound was not satisfying enough. But it was easier to wish than watch. We’d concentrate on globules surely heavy enough to warrant the trip, and to our amazement they hung to their pillared parents for grim life, whilst all around their siblings dared rush down. Eventually our patience paid off, with a fraction of a second’s joy, and the complimentary ‘drip’ as our adopted droplet plunged to its fate. Alice commented how they sounded as finger tips on the edge of marimba notes. I was just awed at another symphony of nature.

English with Mr. Brown

When I was 14 I had a Science teacher named Mr. Brown. He was your typical mad scientist - and yet as stern as could be. As a teacher he was a total control freak! On top of it all he spoke with such a thick Scottish accent that it was sometimes hard to understand what he was saying. We all called him "Ma Brun".

On one particular day my English teacher was away sick, so Mr. Brown took us for English. To this day I have no idea why. He even had the class relocate to his science lab. We were discussing the English language - its size, parts thereof and so on. One question he asked was, "How big is English? How many words do you think there are?" Some kids said 10,000, 100,000 or maybe more, and Mr. Brown just kept telling them they were wrong. I suggested that English really is infinite. New words are being invented and used every day; words that didn't exist years ago, or even yesterday. It’s a growing, moving, changing language.

I was so berated by Mr. Brown that at the end of the lesson I left the classroom virtually in tears. I thought my answer may have appealed to his scientific mindset. Evidently not.

Ma Brun went on to tell us how stupid we all were. He guessed that there were about 50 million (or some such number) words in the English language, and that we probably only knew a few hundred thousand.

TC&GB, pk