RICKLOW CAVE IN FLOOD.
Photo by G. D. Williams.
We crept over a pavement of fractured blocks, into a broad, low passage that seemed to have been hewn by giants out of the solid Limestone. All around were the marks of a powerful, swirling current, that had split and torn the rocks asunder, and bored its way through their joints; yet not a grain of sand or a speck of mud was visible on their cleaned and polished surface. Fissures and passages twisted away at the side, but returned in a few yards to the main corridor. In the roof were discernible the clean-cut hollows whence slabs of Limestone had fallen that still cumbered the floor. The large chamber that we reached finally was bestrewn and heaped up with such masses, and all the ways of egress save one were entirely blocked up. This very soon came to an abrupt termination in a bell-shaped cavity, floored with a crust of stalagmite. But there were narrow fissures, a few inches only in width, running away in many directions; a strong draught made the candles gutter; and the occasional presence of great volumes of water was made evident by the damage done to some of the incrustations. There was no sign or sound of flowing water now; the silence was as profound and impressive as the darkness. Yet this rock-strewn chamber was once the birthplace of a river. Hither, from countless fissures, the streamlets gathered together and poured through the hidden places of the hill, now in a rippling brook, and now in a torrent, crashing and rending. At present the Cales Dale stream finds its way to the Lathkill river by still more secret channels. But at no infrequent times, even yet, the torrent thunders over the waterfall in the Pot Hole Cavern, the swallet is inundated, and a flood pours on through the long tunnel, and so into the open stream-course in the dale, now dried up and covered with vegetation. Proofs of this were legible all around us.
Returning up the dale, we closed the mouth of the artificial level, and went back to the Ricklow Cavern. Although the portal is so majestic, the passage becomes anything but commodious at the end of a few paces. Once more we had to crawl over hard, water-worn rock, deeply fissured and thrown out of the horizontal; our galled knees and elbows could scarcely be induced to go at all, and the pace was miserably slow. Then the roof came down so close in a horizontal fissure of huge extent, that there was nothing for it but to wriggle. My friends had ascertained that 280 feet of this work leads into a lofty chamber. It is one of those long, vertical fissures, not wide but enormously high, that are common in the Castleton caves. There were indications of galleries overhead, but we were too much exhausted to attempt climbing without a ladder. Only one exit was practicable, which led in 20 feet into just such another hollow, but still wider and uglier of aspect. Filling the cavity to a height of 30 feet was a mountain of shattered rocks, flung together pell-mell and wedged loosely. When we climbed it, the light of our candles showed that the structure was hollow, and hardly more durable in appearance than a house of cards. Some of the rocks were held by points and corners, swinging on their long axes; a touch sent others clattering down, as we crept with the utmost caution up the adjoining wall. It was as if the interior of the hill had been rent apart by an earthquake, and the headlong stream of rocks caught suddenly and held by the closing in of the fracture. We clambered to the summit of this hollow mass of ruin, and lit some magnesium wire. The formless walls went up into a dark void above us, their ledges fringed with glistening spikes and tendrils of transparent stalactite, revealed by the glare. There had been visitors here before. Scratched on the walls, but partially coated over by a crystalline enamel, were the initials "H. B.—R. A.," and the date 1817; other scrawls were indecipherable. No doubt this was the cave whose legendary renown had reached our ears. Getting down our shattered staircase was a more formidable job than the ascent. One stone, as big as a table, rocked like a see-saw when we set foot on it.
Stalactites were not numerous in these caves, which are not only very humid, but continually swept by water. Animal remains were plentiful, all recent, bones being carried in by beasts of prey and deposited by floods. As this process must have been going on for ages, the two Cales Dale caverns would probably yield good results to palæontological research.
A comic incident cheered my fatigued comrades when we regained the open air. In the morning I had brought my family up from Bakewell Station for a day in the country, a work of supererogation that now placed me in a curious predicament. The waggonette had gone off to pick them up for the early train, and, to my distress, I found the driver had relieved us of all the luggage, including the rücksack which held my clothes, not to mention boots, pipe, and railway ticket. The alternative stared me in the face of proceeding to town in slimy overalls or in attire of dangerous slightness. But the broad-shouldered friend came to the rescue with his cave jacket, a garment that fell about me like a baggy greatcoat, hiding the worst deformities, and with battered hobnailers at one extremity, and a cap that had more stiff clay than cloth in it at the other, I made the best of my way home under the cover of darkness.