An account, in rhyme, of the Anglo/Belgian trip of 1970.
(A Nonny Mouse Production)

From the Berger blows an icy blast,
the first pitches are abseiled enthusiastically fast.
Ruiz and Cairn Hall are past,
then the meanders traversing wide
to Garby's and Gontards with good belays
- Aven pitches to the relays.

From fine Aldo's on alone I go
thro' monstrous caverns moving slow,
Perchance I should lose the way
and never again see light of day.

Glimmers of my feeble lamp
are eaten by the hungry dark.

Onward, following intuitions guide
apprehensions I must confide
Will the fine weather hold?
Can I venture on so bold?

Sliding down a slippy slope
to where clear playful water gives fresh hope,
tinkling over Little General's cascade
next, the Tyroleans pool I wade.

Now the Great Rubble Heap begins, dry and steep
descending several hundred feet.

Amazing, down thro' boulder strewn halls
never seeing any walls
but boulders as big as houses seem
to pass around and go between.

Far below, the glow of camp and friends.

Ready, we ventured forward as a team
thro' halls of sparkling stalagmite.
Still dripstone pools, reflections seem
frail as lace in our lamps warm light.

Treading carefully between the gours
gazing down at crystal flowers.
Then the finest stalagmites ever seen,
growing in the wondrous Hall of Thirteen.

The passage continues far out of sight
the floor smooth flowstone glistening bright,
to Balcony shaft, dropping down sixty feet.
At the bottom a river we do meet.

At Cloakroom pitch the watersports begin
- we've got no boat so we'll have to swim.
The water chills us to the marrow
so we traverse where it's narrow
There are traverse wires across deep pools
so tackle won't be lost (nor fools).

The passage height increases fast,
we're now beyond the canals at last.
Swiftly now with the stream,
going deeper than we've ever been.

One thousand metres is a bloody long hump
just to say you've seen a sump.
The point is not just to reach the end
but to find what's waiting round each bend.
- Never know just what you'll find
maybe a truth hidden in your mind.

At the first cascade we arrive
where the water does deeply dive
fifteen feet into a basin
spilling over and downward racing.

Rapids now down steep inclines,
laugh and slide, happy times.

Now we hear Claudines roar,
beckoned by her deadly charm
descend from the end of a scaffold arm.

Then the Grand Canyon,
like in the mountains on the darkest night.
Steeply descend keeping right.

A starless Scafell,
comrades lights beetling down
like stars from Heaven descending to Hell.

At the bottom Gaché's shaft does fall,
an easy seventy feet against the wall.

Onto fearsome Grand Cascade
with river pounding down,
gushing and crashing reverberating sound
- far underground.

Abseil down double quick
try and keep carbide lamp lit.

Two small pitches follow on,
deep pools included,
to add to the sport of us poor deluded.

In high spirits, awake to the spray,
truly enjoying this fabulous day.

Now the monkey shaft puzzles.

Traverse out with pegs and bolts
and lower a ladder toward the foaming deep,
abseil down, hoping there'll be no jolts.

Hurricane, shaft of great fame
descends into a vast cold hall,
swept by subterranean wind and rain.

In this omnipotent hall of stone
eternity finds you, small and prone.
It rattles the brain and chills the bone,
when there you're all alone.

Hurry along, the ends not far,
we're nearing the final dreaded water.

Wishing now we'd brought a boat
or anything along on which to float.
The horror of this terrible swim
to relate I'll not begin.

At the sump we don't stay long,
an oppressive place where we don't belong.
Beyond, the Starless river flows on its way
to the vats and light of day.

Divers oxbow relieved our diminishing return.

Lying soaked and shivering beginning to tire,
the water's extinguished all the fire.

Now we're not so bold
but numb and shivering,
dreadfully cold.

Stripped, we wring out our clothes and moan.

Climbing up Hurricane does the trick
circulates the blood fast, warm and thick.

Happy to be alive once more
- see the friendly colours of the wall
compared to the windswept grim black hall.

The return goes now without a hitch
except a jumar dropped down monkey pitch.
All is dark at the Grand Cascade
lights extinguished give no aid.

Back at the Cloakroom we meet Lemair's tramps
on way to the bottom without using camps.
So we wished them all the best,
returned to our camp to sup, eat and rest.

Etienne awoke us on his return,
from the bottom he had run.
His team had worked hard that night
and the de-tackling had begun.

In the Grand Canyon the tackle lay,
our job was to pull it back to camp.
After the soaking the previous day
We donned our clothes which were cold and damp.

All went well.
Even Claudine didn't give us Hell.
So we decided to pull all the way out.

Our packframes were heavy and one hand was full,
climbing the Rubble Heap was a strenuous pull.
With shorter steps and longer rests,
we wearily made our way.
Pity there are no buses running here today.

At Aldos we dropped our loads
and left them where they lay.
Relieved we ate mechanically
then continued on our way.

With only personal bags
to pull up shafts
we are tired and frayed.
Kept awake by icy draughts,
heavy eyes begin to close
so weary muscles can doze.

Willpower pulls us through,
to Ruiz the final grind.
To emerge from the strange and wonderful
world only underground you find.

A Nonny Mouse