Cave Dale

Next morning the company awoke to the smells of yet more cooking.   Gallons of kedgeree, mountains of snorkers and fresh baked bread attracted small, eager faced children, fed-up with gluten-free muesli, who were beginning to gather hopefully around the field-ovens.   As the aroma of toasting crumpets spread round the camp troopers began to emerge.   Boz an Co. had been cosy in their allotted yurt with its central, pot-bellied stove, but the shrieking of owls, barking of foxes and coughing of feral mountain sheep had intermittently disturbed their slumber.   They rose to be greeted by an infuriatingly boisterous Slasher.

“Are we all fired up for the mission?” he asked, to be answered with general mumblings, scratchings and yawnings.   Ginsbergbear was grabbing a quick fix of catnip shag as Phoebles emerged, wide eyed, from behind the latrine screens.

“It’s disgustingly primitive in there.”

However a good breakfast soon saw the heroes raring to go.

In preparation for their foray into Castleton our quintet disguised themselves as ramblers in heavily dubbined hiking boots, red socks, knee-length corduroy shorts, anoraks and bobble hats. To his outfit Slasher McGoogs had added Groucho Marx specs complete with moustache, eyebrows and nose.   They carried Leki Treckies and Bergen rucksacks packed with Kendal Mintcake, Ginger Beer, a Saturator AK-47 water pistol each and several fully loaded magazines.

“I have put fresh batteries in all the assault rifles.”   Boz took out his one-inch OS map - somewhat out of date, but true enough; the natives of the Dales only reluctantly embrace change - folded it neatly to expose the section covering Edale and the Hope Valley, and slid it into his map-case.   He consulted his trusty Dan Dare Space Cadet compass and waving the others to follow set off on foot over Hollins Cross into Castleton.   It was a tough climb along the winding path taken in older times by the deceased of Edale to the cemetery in Castleton.   But the view from the ridge was spectacular.   The descent was paved for much of the way and easier, though precipitous.

Once they reached the outskirts of Castleton the gang could see that the Goth Festival was still in full swing.   In the centre of town they squeezed their way between blue haired, dark eyed maidens in black lace; shock haired, pale faced youths in black frock coats and dead man toppers; tall vampires with even whiter skin, redder lips and yellow fangs.   They pushed betwixt cyberpunks and diesel punks; noted pale cats with brass goggles, dark glazed in ruby or purple, swathed in white leather great coats, mingling conspicuously with the glum revellers; and veered away from zombies that jerkily lurched in festering groups from one pub to the next.   Once they were over Cross Street, Castleton’s Main Drag, and out of the crowds the ramblers ducked up Castle Street where Phoebles managed to trip over the slumped and sobbing form of a diminutive EMO.   As they lay in a heap together, and she rubbed a nasty bruise that was developing on her ankle, she observed Phoebles through her tears, “You can’t win you know.   We are all flushing headlong down the toilet-pan of existential ennui towards the cesspit of despair.   Our fate is inevitable.   Turn back!   …Oh, and avoid the zombies.”

The gang were disappearing up the road apparently unaware of Phoebles’ absence and the wan and excessively body-pierced creature was inconsolable.

“I’m really sorry.   Wish I could cheer you up.   Try not to fret.   We’re going to do our best.   Got to go now.

“Er… Guys!” Phoebles cried as he rushed to catch up, “There’s a sad heap down here might have something important to tell us.”

By the time Phoebles had caught up with his companions the zebra haired harbinger of doom was out of sight and all but out of mind.   He was gasping for breath but managed to recount a redacted version of her warning.   Boz was the first to reply.

“Don’t worry about the zombies.   The Chats Souterrains should prove more than enough to contend with.   Impending doom is undermining people’s confidence.   Action – that’s what’s required.   Let’s crack on.”

The little group made for Bargate and soon found the claustrophobic canyon entrance to the jagged gash of Cave Dale which, carved by melt water at the end of a long past ice age, climbs south from the town to the moorland above.   The narrow gateway, hemmed in by limestone cliffs had boasted a natural arch well into the age of industry, though it was now but a memory.   The lower reaches of the dale are overseen by the glowering Norman cliff-top castle and Ferdy could make out white-furred and darkly begoggled faces under pickelhaubes and sallets peering down from the crenulated battlements at the jolly hikers so very far below.

Ginsbergbear broke into ‘I Love to Go A Wandering’ in a growly basso profundo.

“Try to look happy.” Wheezed Boz; for theirs was a relentless, up-hill slog.   The party hunched their shoulders, stomped down with their Leki poles and whistled along with the bear.

As they climbed, the dale widened.   Where the steep rocky sides met the grassy bottom tubby, brown birds chattered, fed and fluttered.   Gnarled and stunted trees clung to damp crevices in the moss-cloaked rock.   Meadow flowers buzzed with pollinating bees.   Soon the hiking party had rounded a bare pinnacle and were out of sight of the watchers on the keep.   Pausing to peruse his map and check his compass Boz veered off along an indistinct track and with the gang following as quickly as they could, discovered a low orifice at the base of the cliff.   On reaching the small cave mouth they found the apparently deep but restricted vent was secured by an iron gate which bore a yellow sign inscribed:

Danger of death!

A low frequency hum welled up towards the intrepid group from the depths of the dank cavern.

Ferdy produced his Victorinox Spymaster Multi-tool Swiss Army Ensemble and, utilising the magnifying glass attachment, examined the lock.   He considered for a moment and then folding out two long thin lock-picking tools began to fiddle.   After a fruitless few minutes he re-examined the lock under the magnifying glass, flicked out two more attachments with twiddly bits on the ends and began again.   Several tense minutes of deft manipulation later there was a click, the gate swung back in well-greased silence and they had gained access to a steep ventilation shaft.

 Pausing only to take out their Petzl Pathfinder 21 head torches and fix them firmly over their bobble hats they warily began their penetration of the realm of Les Chats Souterrains.

Edale YHA

The track took them over the ridge and zig-zagged down the other side to cross the River Ashop at Haggwater Bridge, in a picturesque and heavily wooded glen.   Having crossed the narrow stone-built 18^th Century packhorse bridge they passed beyond the lower end of Jaggers’ Clough and were soon at the YHA establishment of Lady Booth House.   As the company dismounted and began to tend to their horses the warden came bustling out of the towering, grey edifice.

“I fear that we are unable to cater for such a large party as yourselves, just at the moment.”

Subcommandanté Slasher remained firmly in the Spanish saddle of his grey.   He looked down at the fit, but ageing supervisor.

“Fear not, we are totally self contained.   We merely intend to camp for the night in your grounds.”   Slasher’s voice was a little muffled through his balaclava mask and neither the feigned Mexican accent nor the Dunhill bulldog briar clamped between his teeth made his diction any the clearer.

The conversation was punctuated by squeals which came from an adventure playground fenced off in front of the House.   Children in hard hats, knee protectors and safety-harnesses were learning the fundamentals of teamwork around a zip-wire structure.

“What is all that?” enquired Boz as Snowdrop unharnessed the three horses from the techanka.

“Outdoor activities.” Replied the warden.

“In a playground?   You have Kinderscout just up there.”   Boz indicated the escarpment above and behind the house.

“Take them on the moor, are you mad?   Health and safety; their parents would have kittens.   No disrespect,” he added quickly as Boz scowled.  

Ginsbergbear joined them.

“If you ever met The Kittens you would reconsider your cliché.” 

Undeterred, the warden continued to address Subcomandanté Slasher, “And if you could please keep your animals away from the kids too.   Any contact and they’ll all go down with Escherichia coli, come out in a rash, or worse.”

As they talked a colourful encampment of tents, pavilions, yurts and flags had risen up around them.   The Snake Pass Zapatistas really liked their flags.   Smoke was already issuing from stovepipes that projected through the canopy of a large field kitchen marquee and the guerrillas were in the process of erecting trestle tables and laying them for supper.

  

A Digression

The Festival of Britain, on the south bank of the London River, had been a triumphal two-fingered salute to brutalist reality, a barely bridled moment of joy sandwiched between a bleak past and an even bleaker future.   The sole survivor of that forlorn gesture against the post war gloom was the Festival Music Hall, now standing in solitary majesty amidst a spiritual wasteland of reinforced concrete.   Sam and Consuella regularly performed there, though it had so far avoided the misfortune of a staging of the Kittens of Chaos’ Giselle.

They are, however, booked in for a short run during the post-panto season in 2013 – tickets still available.

Some weeks before Slasher McGoogs’ appearance at the penthouse bedsit Boz was visiting the South Bank for a lunchtime concert in which Sam was to play alongside Jools Holland - and after the set he took a stroll along the embankment.   The wide promenade is a venue for second hand bookstalls and he was idly fingering through various shop-soiled tomes when a thin, red cover caught his eye.   It was an Ordinance Survey, One Inch to the Mile, Series Seven map of the Southern Pennines and Derbyshire Dales, Sheet 111.   Printed on almost indestructible fabric-backed paper, it dated very much from the time of the concert hall's inauguration and seemed irresistible – red AND indestructible.   His purchase was to prove serendipitous in ways he could not have foreseen. 

The Snake Pass Zapatistas.

“…If you could take your seats, boys, I’ll be putting her down shortly.”

Boz could see the Ladybower reservoir and stone built Derwent Dam ahead.   Woodland rushed by on either side as the Dornier Do X lost height and flew down the length of the lower reservoir.   Dark trees, scattered gorse, sheep grazed pasture interspersed with falls of scree clothed the steep sides.   The twelve Curtiss Conquerors roared as the flying boat pulled up and swept in low over the dam, between the towers, and set down on the Derwent Water.   The view through the portholes was obliterated by spray.   The movement slowed, the plane wallowed and the tortured, piston engine din subsided; a chain rattled.

Beryl emerged from the flight deck.   Ferdy came into the cabin from a stint in the Machine Centre and the Kronstadt Starshina also appeared, moving aft, to report, “Comrades, I’ve dropped the hook and a small craft already appears to be heading out towards us.   It’s moving too fast to be a boat.”

By the time they had stepped out onto the stub wing the silver, dart-like vessel was close, skimming just above the water.   As it neared they could hear it throttle back and watched it settle in the water only feet away.   There was a solid bump as it drifted alongside and the Do X gave a slight shudder.   The pilot emerged, blue striped t-shirt visible at the open neck of his soiled white boiler suit, black star prominent on a red beret, he lobbed a painter to one of the Kronstadt sailors who held the two craft together as the gang stepped aboard.   Before they had time to sit there was a wheeze from a dodgy looking ramjet engine, accompanied by some spluttering, a pulsing blast of orange-yellow flame and the craft hurtled towards the shore.   The pilot scowled over his shoulder and blew a smoke ring through a stub of clay pipe.   Beryl waved them away from the Dornier’s hatchway and the line of Kronstadt sailors broke into mournful song.

Over the hills and through the dales

The Division advances to battle.

Conquer the White Cats, tweak their tails.

Infiltrate the troglodyte castle.

With the dark blood of ancient wounds,

Their fluttering banners stained in red,

Brave partisans who know no bounds,

Swift and dashing, fierce and dread.

The fame of these days shall never dim.

Fade away it never will.

Of guerrilla units, sing their hymn.

They’ll take Mam Tor, the hollow hill.

On the shore Phoebles could see movement within a copse that topped the hillside and a large contingent of mounted irregulars moved into the sunlight, a wolf pack waiting, watching.   Black banners fluttered, there was the occasional glint of sunlight on gunmetal and one prominent figure on a tall grey raised binoculars to his eyes.

“That is Subcomandante Everyman of the Snake Pass Zapatistas.”

The ground effect craft skimmed across the mirror surface of the reservoir, skidded, engine still screaming, up a shingle beach and halted with a soft thud.   Something fell off the hull near the stern and the jet flame popped out.

The quintet clambered, barely shaken, out of the cockpit and onto the beach.   The ekranoplan sat at an awkward angle and an oily scar stretched from its tail back to the water’s edge.   Sensing an affinity between two pilots and offering a fill of Ginsbergbear’s Navy Catnip Shag Ferdy tried to engage their ferryman in conversation, none too successfully.   However, he did get a response.

“It’s not a plane, it’s a boat, just happens to be a plane shaped boat.   And I am a sailor.”   He glanced across the water to the great Dornier and almost smiled, “Still, I suppose that is a boat too.   Come on ‘comrade’ we have to walk as far as the road.”

On the hill a light horse drawn carriage detached itself from the Cossack group and careered down a farm track to meet the newcomers.   It arrived at the roadside as they did, its driver, wearing a Bolshevist budionovka, chosen for its pretty blue and red star, was slender, hyperactive and profoundly impressed.   She looked across the reservoir at the anchored, brightly glittering flying boat with its baroque tail icon depicting Trotsky slaying the counter revolutionary dragon; then down at the boys.

“Wow!”

Ferdy was the first to greet her.   “Hello Snowdrop.   What are you doing with this mob?”

”I’m M/C-Gunner Snowdrop these days.   D’yer want a lift?” she replied, “I’m sorry it’s a bit cluttered, we haven’t really got any suitable transport for guests.   You clamber up here with me,” to Boz, “and Ferdy, Phoebles and Mr Ginsbergbear, will you be OK in the back?”                               

 ‘In the back’ was indeed cluttered.   A heavy machine gun was mounted where the rear seats should have been, there were boxes of ammunition, a bundle of political pamphlets tied with string, a black umbrella, folding unicycle and a large number of crisp packets and empty soft drink cans.   Ginsbergbear cleared a space on the forward bench and sat with Ferdy, their backs to the horses.   Phoebles grabbed the machine gun and panned it around shouting “Ratatatata,” mowing down imaginary Chats Souterrains.   They turned away from the water and set off along the steady incline of a drovers’ road, followed by the company of Snake Pass Zapatistas and with Snowdrop chatting excitedly to an unusually quiet Boz.

Before long the mounted guerrillas had caught up and were trotting past on each side, rough riders on tall horses, in leather double-breasted reefer jackets, sheep skin jerkins, bandoliers, budionovka pixie hats, Breton caps, many in well-worn jungle-green combat fatigues, khaki open necked shirts, olive patch pocketed cargo trousers and fraying forage caps.   All wore ski masks.   There was a seemingly infinite variety of exotic weaponry with a definite preference for the AK-47 and, almost universally, each carried a three or four string guitar.  

As they passed by many of the brigands made jokey remarks to Snowdrop concerning her passengers’ discomfort.   Subcomandante Everyman trotted up alongside and adjusted his pace to match the tachanka.   He was flamboyantly dressed in a black, heavily frogged hussar jacket, open over his blue striped t-shirt, midnight blue jodhpurs sporting a Cossack crimson stripe down the leg and glistening patent leather knee-high boots, with spurs.   His face was hidden by a balaclava helmet topped by a Kronstadt peakless sailor’s cap with “CHAOS” emblazoned on the ribbon.   There were bandoliers of ammunition crossed loosely over his chest, a Mauser machine pistol and Dragoon Colt at his belt, he carried a Royal Navy pattern cutlass and, over his shoulder, an SMLE jungle carbine.   The racket from bells hung from the horse harness and on bangles at his mount’s fetlocks threatened to drown out any lengthy conversation.   Alongside him a young rider carried a black banner sporting a death’s-head of cat skull and crossed thighbones.   He acknowledged Snowdrop with a nod and then addressed Boz.

“We’ll talk properly when we’re camped, but welcome.   Is our machine-gunner looking after you?   He glanced at the crew in the back, who were bouncing about uncontrollably and hanging on tightly to anything that looked to be firmly bolted down.   “This is not the best of roads.”

“Thank you.”   Boz warmed to this imposing dandy.   “Your men look magnificent.”

“My…?”   Subcomandante Everyman laughed.   “Do they really look as if they belong to anyone?”

As the cavalryman prepared to move away Boz looked searchingly into the familiar eyes that smiled behind the balaclava.

“Slasher?”

Ginsbergbear's Poem - aboard the Do X

POEM

Our silver hull rends the sky

Propellers drilling tunnels through the atmosphere

Gautama floats cross-legged over cumulus fractus

Shiva rides the rainbow

Cthulhu calls down the waterspout

Yeshua walks on the waters

The elements are at war within this ethereal realm

Yet Blake’s angels buoy us up

and we luxuriate in Teutonic splendour

Phoebles don’t touch that it will break   …told you

Helios scorched Icarus falls

but the sons of Hermes sail on air

Pale felines of Duat quiver

For captain America comes

The brown dwarf Nemesis lurks beyond the Oort cloud

waiting on his rightful time

Dark Lords

the Merovingian Lizard Kings stir in the House of Snow

Furnaces roar and hammers clash

Titan’s chamber echoes to the clamour of industry

Fata Morgana fashioned in steel and rivets

Mass produced engines of doom

From the bowels of terra

And we…

A muscle-bound and fake-tanned Kronstadt sailor in neat air-stewardess uniform, pearl earrings, crew-cut and high heels enters at this moment, pushing a refreshment trolley.

“Coffee or tea?   Pork scratchings?”

“Tea, please, strong two sugars.”

“Have you got a latté?”

“Lapsang Souchong for the pilot?”

“Americana please, shaken not stirred.”

…few

we happy few

rush towards our weird

Do we wish to live forever?

In the name of all things felid, what are we getting ourselves into?

Pass the catnip

Enkidu formed of clay

saliva of Aruru

heed my words

Hold the Mayan Apocalypse – till another day

Ginsbergbear, beat poet

Mid air over Milton Keynes

2012

Forget the Fish!

“There’s stuff going on we don’t know about.” observed Boz.   “Now, what about those poor coleyfish?”

“Forget the fish.” Snapped McGoogs, “You heard; our Derbyshire venture is officially sanctioned.   We’re doing the caves.”

 Ferdy called up the Silvertown Airways control tower, situated in the Royal Docks, on his smart-phone and asked to speak to his chief pilot, Beryl Clutterbuck.   She was mid-channel, returning a Handley Page H.P. 42 from their aerodrome on Guernsey, but was able to be put through via the radio.

“Beryl, we need the flying boat for a trip up north.”

 Once Ferdinand was off the phone they finalised some of the minor details and Phoebles voiced the reservation of the majority.

“Well, I suppose that’s settled then, but...”

To toast the venture they all downed their tots of single malt and took long draughts from their pints.   Slasher performed an obscure ritual with his salt and lemon before slugging back the shot of tequila.   “I’ll be going up to Derbyshire in the Pontiac.   See you up there”

The 1938 Pontiac Silver Streak Sports Coupé, vibrant GPO red, upholstered in light tan mohair, white walled tyres, was parked, half on the pavement, opposite the Den.   It glistened colourfully against the backdrop of monochrome bonded warehouses and depositories along the narrow highway.   Slasher sauntered unnoticed, as if his Lycra one-piece rendered him invisible, through the growing crowd, drawn by the antics of Larry’s dirigible and its stunning tortoise-shell chauffeur.   Phoebles’ yellow, Multi spotted pantaloons, conversely, were drawing less than favourable remarks from pointing urchins with their noses pressed to the Catnip Den bay window.   A burbling roar of supercharged Pontiac echoed off the surrounding walls; the 8 cylinder flat-head bored out, souped-up and the tank full of jet fuel.

“That thing’s a bomb on wheels!”

 There was a grinding of gears, a high-pitched whine from under the bonnet and the Pontiac sprang forward.   McGoogs was away through the narrow, cobbled lanes of Limehousesailortown.

The remaining foursome returned to the bedsit to pack their kitbags whilst Dark Flo prepared sandwiches of Herrings In, nautically known as HITS, on white bread, piled on a blue and white Staffordshire Ironstone plate decorated with a Flying P windjammer under full sail.   She wrapped the lot – plate and all - in cling film and placed them in a small hamper along with a bottle of Pusser’s Rum and a packet of Russian Caravan tea.

As the boys came down she was adding a sealed tin of Soma Catnip to the supplies.

“How did you get that?” gasped Ginsbergbear, “That stuff’s rarer than rocking horse dung.   Never leaves India”

“The bell-hop in the Eden Hotel in Kathmandu bunged me a bit from under the counter in gratitude for a particular favour.   Cut it with your Black Alamout Catnip Shag or Phoebles’ stash of White Goddess.   There’s not much of it and it’s expensive.”

At this they became aware of the rhythmic thrub of a dozen unsynchronised piston engines.   The Dornier Do X was doing a circuit over Bozzy’s Catnip Den and the gang rushed out onto the balcony to watch it landing on the London River in a shower of spray like an obese drake on an oily duck pond.

The gigantic silver flugschiff had had the clapped out air-cooled Jupiter engines replaced with six pairs of only slightly second hand 610 hp Curtiss Conqueror water-cooled 12-cylinder inline engines and now sported an art deco Silvertown Airways logo below the portholes along the length of the hull.

Beryl’s voice crackled over the Marconi Marine Nautilus transceiver that sat behind the bar.

“Come aboard, when you are ready”

Waving goodbye to Dark Flo they dropped the kitbags into a dumpy clinker build skiff that was tied to a ladder at back of den.   The hamper and crew followed and an invigorating five minutes was spent tugging on a cord wound round the head of a recalcitrant Seagull outboard.   In a sudden cloud of blue smoke and with a tuc… tuc… hick, tuc… tuc-tuc-tuc-tuc-tuc the motor sprang into life and they were weaving their way out into the river, trailing a rainbow scar of two-stroke across the surface of the water.

Beryl met them at the starboard stub and deftly caught the thrown painter.   She was tall, slender and clad, somewhat incongruously, in a sheepskin-flying jacket over her flowered cotton frock.   Neither matched her sky blue fur-lined ankle-boots.   Inside the hull a small crew of Kronstadt sailors was lined up for inspection.   They saluted Boz as he came aboard and their  Starshina (Chief Petty Officer) piped a high-pitched whistle that hurt Phoebles’ ears.

“Commodore Desai, would you like to pilot the old girl for the first part of the trip?   I will operate the throttles in the machine centre,” suggested Beryl, addressing Ferdy, “And we can swap round once we’re over Rugby.”