Transcend The Starless River

Ten months later, I found myself heading down to Autrans in the French Alps with a strange crowd of about 50. This was my first time abroad and I wasn't going to miss a bit of it. It was like a scene from the 'Italian Job'. Two Transit vans and two mini busses headed down from the north of England to the south coast, picking everyone up along the way. Arriving at Portsmouth, we picked our last man up in a pub (Hello, sailor!) and boarded the midnight ferry where, after an unknown quantity of beer, we settled down under the seats in the bar.

The weather was hot and we hit Paris just as the entire city was leaving for their summer vacations. For the first two weeks of August, the whole of France grinds to a standstill. As we drove along the motorways, I was soon to discover a whole new experience - French toilets. Opening the door, I stood facing a hole. No toilet. Just a hole and a pair of bars to hang on to. As if this wasn't enough, some bugger had moved the water jet so that a push of the button sent a deluge of water three feet horizontally towards the door. Except that, now, there was something between the toilet and the door - me! This guaranteed that I would be the 'butt' of everyone's jokes for the rest of the trip.

But soon we were in Autrans, driving up a steep road to our campsite - La Mollier plateau (5000 feet). The camp was soon set up with a straggle of tents surrounding the communal 30' mess tent and generator. As soon as everything was in place, we set off along the path to find the entrance to our dream - the 1100m deep Gouffre Berger - the world's 7th deepest cave.

I'd never been at this kind of altitude before. The heat, combined with the thinness of the air, was breath taking - literally! Subsequent trips over the years to Mallorca would also present us with the problems of heat and lack of breath. For a few days at this altitude, a short walk had to be taken slowly. Here we were faced with several walks each day to the entrance and back, a distance of about 2 miles, carrying heavy bags of rope. It's ironic, but by the end of the trip we were probably fit enough to start!

Everything was well organised. From the mess tent, a telephone line followed the path for about a mile to the entrance where a second line descended the cave to Camp One. A small tent at the entrance was manned day and night, so that any problems underground could quickly be relayed back to base. If the handle was turned on the telephone, a very high ‘ringing voltage’ would be generated and the phone at the other end would chirp like a grasshopper. One day, there was a problem on the line. ‘Martin’ was at the entrance and ‘Dave’ at the campsite.

Dave: "OK Martin – I can ring you, but you can’t ring me. I want you to put your fingers across the terminals."

Martin: "Bugger off!"

Dave: "DO IT!"

Martin: "OK…"

Dave: "Right – now I want you to wind the handle as fast as you can!" (‘He won’t do it’, we said, convinced)

Martin: "AAAGH!"

Soon it was time to take the plunge. My group's turn had come to 'do the Berger' and it was with some trepidation that I dropped onto the rope at the top of the 20' entrance pitch. The cave is in three distinct sections. The first sees a narrow passage descend 9 pitches mostly between 80' and 140' deep. The last of these pitches, Aldo's, proved to be one of the most impressive abseils that I've encountered.

From the foot of Aldo's, we entered the second phase of the trip. The pitches were behind us; ahead lay a breathtaking sight. The roof towered around 150' above us and the walls were nowhere to be seen. We were in the Grand Gallery of the Starless River; a place worthy of it's name. Continuing onwards and downwards, across the currently dry Lake Cadeaux, we entered the Great Rubble Heap. Boulders the size of houses surrounded us. We were in the only passage, yet here was a place where one could still get lost - was that the cave wall beside you, or just a 20' high boulder?

Then - in the light of our carbide lamps - we caught the first glimpse of the scene that had brought us here. Salle des Treize - Hall of the Thirteen. It was like a scene out of Journey to the Centre of The Earth. Stalagmites, 40 feet high, towered above the perfectly beautiful 15 feet diameter calcite pools. The roof was somewhere beyond the beams of our electric lights and the chamber continued past group after group of calcite sentries, guarding the way to the final stage of the cave. However, for me, the sentries won - I decided that this was the point at which I would turn round at a depth of -500m.

Taking a short rest - we had brought our camping gear with us - I still had a long way to go before I saw daylight again. The trip out was tiring. Exhausted after the arduous trip down the cave, we were now faced with a 500m climb out. It doesn't sound much, but by God it is! The hardest part was the Rubble Heap; several times I found myself stood 20' above the rest of the team with no way down, other than to go back the way I'd come. Eventually, we were back at Aldo's. I knew that the entrance series would be a dog! Copious amounts of cursing & swearing followed as I prussiked my way up the 600 feet of pitches to the 'delicate' platform at the top of the Ruiz pitch. Just twenty feet above me was daylight. Exhausted, I hauled myself back onto the Earth’s surface - 20 hours after having started the trip.

I felt elated. The trip was hard work, but had definitely been worth it for the unrivalled sights. Now, as other groups took their turns to descend, I could relax and be a tourist; chance to take in the area around us. Camp facilities here were non existent. The campsite was surrounded by forest, which in turn hid numerous 'clints & grykes'. The French call it La Lapiaz - a series of cracks in the limestone several feet wide and many feet deep. But after the experience on the road down through France, we were experts. A clint with a well-positioned tree root was kept as a closely guarded secret!

Much of the time was spent in Autrans and at the local swimming pool at Meudre, where a swim and a couple of beers were the order of the day. The problem with the French style of public toilets is that the French don't seem to be able to tell the difference between a toilet and a shower bowl, making the poolside facilities a no-go area.

We were now reaching the end of the expedition and it was time for our Last Supper, to be held at the Autrans Crêperie & Wine Bar. They could normally seat around 25 guests, but would manage 30 at a push. Imagine the owner's surprise when we managed to squeeze 45 in - seated! Eleven people sat at our table and I guess the aim was to 'start as you mean to go on'. Ordering "eight whites and three reds", the waitress replied:

"Yes, 8 glasses of white wine and 3 glasses of red wine"

"No, no - bottles!" came the chorus.

After this, my first trip abroad, what was there left to do? A look around showed that there were still more wonderful caving and walking areas across Europe, but when someone suggested a trip to Mallorca I was dumbstruck. 'Lager louts'? It turned out that Mallorca is one solid lump of limestone set in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. "Head north, young man, and ye shall find..." was the prompt.

We based ourselves at Puerto Pollenca, in the north of Mallorca, as far away from Palma as possible! This too was a whole new joy for me. My only previous experience of being near the sea was my childhood holidays to Scarborough; that wonderful part of the Yorkshire North Sea coastline where to set foot in the grey, choppy water could bring you to the brink of hypothermia. Only Blackpool could have compared to this; there, even the tea was grey!

But here I would discover a range of impressive mountains, bereft of all vegetation save the numerous Olive groves and sparse grass & Juniper. Here I would find limestone gorges, 1000 feet deep; and where I found limestone, I would also find caves. Dry, warm, 20° C caves where the minimum of equipment was required.

Before we could venture underground, we needed to buy some calcium carbide for our lamps. Carbide is a wonderful chemical that gives off acetylene in an exothermic reaction when water is added. This acetylene would be our only source of light underground. So we hired a car (white!) and set off for the main regional town of Pollenca.

Being the best Spanish-speaker in the group (I knew the Spanish word for ‘Paella’), it was my duty to find a shop that sold explosive chemicals. We had already been told that the Spanish for Carbide was ‘carburra’, so we set about approaching everyone we could find with the solo word "Carburra?". This was all to no avail, so I decided that if anyone knew where I could buy explosives locally, it had to be a policeman!

I started by asking if he knew what ‘carburra’ was and the closest he could find to my pronunciation was Cabra - a goat! I definitely didn’t want a goat, explosive or otherwise, so I tried again.

"Agua y carburra gives acetylino", I offered, in my best Yorkshire accent.

"Ah!", said the policeman. "Carburo – you mean carburo.", pointing to the ironmongers across the road.

At home in Yorkshire, I would normally wear a full length fleece suit with another nylon suit over the top, along with a pair of wetsuit socks and wellington boots to keep out some of the water. For the first time ever, I was now wearing a pair of ordinary boots and socks with a thin cotton boiler suit – nothing else; and I was still hot. The caves were unbelievable, being largely water-free and desiccated. Amazing white formations were everywhere.

It wasn’t long before, once more, I found myself as the unwilling interpreter. We were looking for an obscure entrance and were told to park at a particular farm. Knowing that nobody would speak English, I picked up the communal phrasebook. " ‘Puedo aparcar aqui?’ means ‘can I park here?’, so if I say ‘puedo aparcar aqui’ and the name of the cave, it should be easy – they will say either Yes or No". Simple!

Knocking on the door, a wrinkled old woman answered with a brush in her hand. Reciting my memorised question, she replied with something along the lines of "Carlos is working in the fields and you’ll have to ask him when he gets back at 8 o’clock tonight."

"Que? Er, I mean ‘Por favor?’ ".

We did eventually get into the cave. One enormous chamber, bedecked with calcite flows and barriers made for an interesting trip. Approaching a corner, the entire wall took off before our eyes; hundreds of bats flew out of the cave as one. Amazing!

Not all of our time was spent underground, though. We also had information about a gorge walk to the Torrente de Pareis, a gigantic cleft in the limestone leading its awesome route down from the heights of Escorca to the sea at Sa Calobra. The head of the gorge lay at the foot of a cliff, several hundred feet below our initial viewpoint. The path wound its way precipitously down the cliff face, as we took careful steps in the blazing heat. Soon we would be in the comfortable shade of the gorge. Goats clung high on the cliff face; and they weren’t even roped on! The route was punctuated severely by numerous deep pools, some of which could be skirted dryshod, but with the odd couple requiring defter means.

At the head of one of these pools, an enormous boulder presented a vantage point from which a tyrolean traverse could be rigged across the pool. The bags were sent across the rope and we were left to swim across. Stripping off, I packed my clothes in my rucksack and swam across the lake. Isn’t it the case that in these circumstances, your friends are always willing to leave you standing high and not-so-dry? There was I on the far side of the lake, dripping & naked, while they held my rucksack up across the other side, laughing!

But these are the shared experiences and situations that make for a memorable trip. The final part of this trilogy continues to throw new thoughts and ideas at the traveller, as I continued to experience a more tranquil way of life in post-hostilities Slovenija

Actually, the Yugoslav war had started about a month after my first visit (nothing to do with me, Gov’). In a small village near Postojna, one of the locals had established a cavers’ campsite, a place of simple amenities with the added bonus of excellent local knowledge. At this time, Slovenes weren’t used to tourists, so it was as curious for them as it was for us. Walking along, it was common place to see old women stooped, working in the fields. As we approached, they would look up in interest.

In the more ‘westernised’ societies, the tourist’s "Hello" often goes unnoticed and unacknowledged but here, a visitor’s simple "Dober Dan" was always greeted with a friendly wave. It’s about time we realised what we’re losing back home.

We were told by one of the ever-friendly locals that there were bears in the forests and the best bait (for photography) was a smelly fish.

"There is an easy way to catch fish", he told us, "but it is not legal. You take a can and a small piece of carbide…"

"Yes…" came the united response. "I think we’ll give that one a miss!"

It was all so friendly. On our last night Franc, the campsite owner, invited us to join him and his wife for a meal.

"We can have pizza in Postojna", he suggested, "or there’s a good restaurant at Cerknica where you can have Buffalo Eggs."

"But Buffaloes don’t lay eggs!"

"No – Buffalo Eggs. They’re about that big," he cupped his hands. "You know – testes!"

Actually they were very nice, sliced & lightly fried and served with chips a big red chilli!
 
 

These first forages into the unknown were my introduction to travel and a (hopefully) long life of adventure. Since then, I have visited a number of European areas – some popular, some not – and tried to get the best out of a place with the limitations imposed by work.