25

The Plughole Extension

AS I WAS NEVER destined to be a rock climber, I was never destined to be a speleologist. Yet I have persevered with both beyond the level of competence, and this has led me into some exceptional situations. On one extraordinary occasion, it fell to me by chance to discover the holy grail of all speleology: new passage. It was the only time in my life, up to now, about which I can truly say that I undertook some real exploration, when I was able to go where no one had gone before.

In the depths of any known cave, it is unusual to find a new passage that no one has noticed before. Usually there is none. If there is any, its entrance may begin as a minute hole, or be hidden behind a rock, or be blocked by silt… or all three. But for anyone who finds it, it is akin to finding a new mountain. In the whole history of the human race, you are the first to go there, the first even to see it. It’s the draw of exploration.

Poll Seomar (Chamber Pot) is a 20m-deep hole on an Argyll hillside. The guidebook had nothing interesting to say about it. Paul and I lounged beside the entrance, already exhausted from adventures in nearby caves such as the Cave of the Roaring Waters and the Cave of the Skulls. My companion seemed content simply to collect the magic mushrooms that carpeted the ground roundabout. On a whim, I roused him to action. The Pot appeared to offer a nice and easy descent to round off a good day’s exploration before we headed home.

We scrambled down without incident but, at the bottom, purely by chance, I noticed a hole behind a boulder. Instinctively, I inserted myself into it feet first. A few moments later, I shimmied out onto a wide, sloping bedding plane. It descended away from me, barely a couple of feet high, roofed with pencil-thin stalactites that almost touched the rock floor on which I was lying. As the stalactites barred the way forward, it was obvious that I had entered a new cave, but the significance of the discovery was overshadowed by my eagerness to see what lay beyond.

I squirmed my way down the rock floor, taking as narrow a line as possible through the stalactites. Regrettably, some snapped and tinkled down as I passed. Despite taking as much care as possible, there was no way to avoid all of them.

At the foot of the slope, a small stream came in from the right. To the left, it disappeared down a gently sloping tube large enough to crawl along on hands and knees. I pushed on into the bowels of the earth, barely able to believe that no one had passed this way before. At one point, a dry passage, like an oxbow bend, took a brief detour. Cupped in the corner of the bend was a small grouping of larger stalactites and stalagmites that would later see the Chamber Pot re-rated as one of the most decorated in Argyll.

Now I could hear the distant roar of a huge waterfall, echoing up the passage like an underground Niagara. I approached with quickening pulse, only to laugh at my own foolishness when I reached it. The stream tumbled down a drop in the passage of no more than a couple of feet. The sound had been heightened by the confined space. Not far beyond here, the stream disappeared into gravel and the passage came to an end.

But that wasn’t the end of the excitement. Paul arrived soon after me. In our eagerness to see where the passage had been leading us, we’d taken insufficient care to note the route. On the way back out, at the top of the bedding plane, we reached a dead end. The hole back up to the bottom of the Chamber Pot simply wasn’t there any longer. All around us was solid rock.

Instinctively, we looked at each other. Later, we would both express relief that we could detect no sign of panic in the other’s eyes. There was a problem. We would have to work together to solve it. Panic would not help.

It was a turning point in our relationship. Before the trip, we had been more acquaintances than friends, but in that reassuring glance a permanent bond was formed. In that instant of adversity, like roped climbers who suddenly find that their lives depend on each other, we became more than companions. We became trusted friends.

Where no one has gone before

Painstakingly, we inched our way back along the passage, searching every nook and cranny for an opening. Eventually we found the exit hole and managed to worm our way back up into daylight.

We retired to a hostelry to replenish our reserves and mull over our adventure. We decided that, until we had an opportunity to investigate further, the new cave must remain a secret. A few months later, we went back. As we approached the passage end, I was taken aback when my torch beam caught the impression of a boot in the mud. In our absence, someone else had found our new passage! Then I realised that it was my own bootprint, undisturbed from our previous visit. A permanent mark.

We intended to explore the cave further, even attempt to survey it, but better cavers than us found their way in and our brief encounter with exploration glory was over. At least, as the discoverers of the new passage, we got to name it. It exited the bottom of the Chamber Pot, so we called it the Plughole Extension. The bedding plane we named Stal Mall. We still haven’t got around to naming the other parts. It’s an ongoing project. These are important matters.

Like I say, I was never destined to be a speleologist, but that only made my discovery of the Plughole Extension an even more remarkable event. I still find it hard to believe that a novice such as myself was granted the privilege of blundering his way into new passage. I was the first. No one, no one, can ever take that away from me.