by J. R. Ellis
‘These hills hold some terrible secrets, I’m afraid; they’re beautiful but deadly,’ said Oldroyd rather solemnly. ‘Alan Williams had a point about respecting these caves.’
Carter was shocked to read the ages of the men who died. One was only sixteen.
‘That’s horrible, sir. How did it happen?’
‘One of Britain’s worst ever caving accidents: Blackfell Caverns. A party of cavers went on a trip down there and five were drowned; the caves flooded after a thunderstorm. This place is notorious: there’s a whole network of caves under here but they fill up with water completely when it rains. Apparently it can take as little as thirty minutes.’
‘They were all so young.’
‘Yes, it was a dreadful day. Superintendent Walker reminded me about it.’
‘What beats me, sir, is why they do it; you know, keep going down when it’s so dangerous. It just seems daft to me.’
‘Why do people climb mountains, Carter? Why do they hang-glide off huge cliffs? Why do they try to beat the land-speed record? It’s the challenge, isn’t it? And the danger’s part of it.’
‘I’m a city bloke; can’t see the point of it. A good challenge for me is how many bars you can visit in one evening. But,’ he looked around again at the landscape, ‘why go down there when there’s all this to see?’
Oldroyd looked at Carter and raised his eyebrows.
‘Well, maybe he’s not such a city bloke after all.’ He took a piece of paper out of his pocket.
‘This also might explain it. I copied it out of that old Victorian book on caving. It’s by that eccentric local poet, Haverthwaite. Some of it’s in dialect I’m afraid, but listen to this.’
Carter listened attentively; he was getting used to Oldroyd’s sense of drama.
Lost in t’Caves
T’candle flickers and t’watter drips,
T’stones are muddy and t’cold air nips,
We want to get aht but we can’t find t’way,
Now that we’re ’ere are we ’ere to stay?
Afee’ard o’ t’shadders but we can’t thoil t’black,
We can’t go forrard and we can’t go back,
We’re tired and cold and we’ve nowt to eat,
We’re weary, freetened and dead on us feet.
Stumbling round t’corner we can hardly cope,
But we see a light and it gives us ’ope,
It’s nobbut tiny, but th’end is nigh,
We stride on upwards with us spirits ’igh.
We all reach t’daylight and we sing and shout,
To God Almighty who’s brought us out,
Rolling on t’grass we laugh and cry,
Screwing up us een at t’bright blue sky.
Will we go dahn age’an? Only time’ll tell.
We think o’ that darkness as t’depths of ’ell,
But t’wonder and t’mystery and t’sheer bloody awe,
Will draw us dahn into t’depths once more.
Joseph Haverthwaite 1851
Carter couldn’t follow all the dialect but he understood the sentiment. The dark underworld beneath their feet would always hold a fascination that could draw people down even to their deaths. But as he stood next to Oldroyd and looked across the broad fells overarched by a blue sky with fleecy clouds, he knew which he preferred.
Pot ’oles
Unless tha’s careful on thi ways,
Providence Pot will end thi days.
Watch out when striding over th’ill,
Especially near to Gaping Gill.
If tha wants to keep all thi bones ’ole,
Don’t go fallin’ into Boggart’s ’Ole.
If on th’edge tha tries to sit,
Tha’ll be dahn Hunt Pot, that evil slit.
If tha slips and slides on t’Devil’s Cup,
That monstrous ’ole will eat tha up.
Don’t go thinking tha’s bold and brave,
Tha’ll tremble and shake afore Yorda’s Cave.
Tha’ll think tha’s dee’ad and gone to t’devil,
If tha tries to climb down Ibbeth Peril.
T’watter goes dahn and niver comes back,
And nather will thee, swallowed up bi t’black.
So say thi prayers and save thi soul,
And keep thi body from t’dark pot ’ole.
Joseph Haverthwaite 1852
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my family and friends for all their support and encouragement over the years, particularly those who read drafts and made comments.
The Otley Courthouse Writers’ Group led by James Nash has helped me to develop as a writer and given me the extra impetus to get things completed!
Peter Dransfield, formerly of Upper Wharfedale Fell Rescue Association, gave me important advice and information.
There is an actual pothole called Jingling Pot in Kingsdale, but I did not use this as a model for the Jingling Pot in the story. I simply liked the name!
West Riding Police is a fictional force based on the old riding boundary. Harrogate was in the old West Riding, although it is now located in North Yorkshire.
About the Author
John R. Ellis has lived in Yorkshire for most of his life and has spent many years exploring Yorkshire’s diverse landscapes, history, language and communities. He recently retired after a career in teaching, mostly in further education in the Leeds area. In addition to the Yorkshire Murder Mystery series he writes poetry, ghost stories and biography. He has completed a screenplay about the last years of the poet Edward Thomas and a work of faction about the extraordinary life of his Irish mother-in-law. He is currently working on his memoirs of growing up in a working-class area of Huddersfield in the 1950s and 1960s.
