Way Down In The Hole

The three of us are just back from a week's holiday, sharing a big mansion with a load of friends in Cumbria. In past years this has often been an excuse for drinking lots of booze, eating lots of food and not doing much else. This time, G's presence and our general advancing years helped make it all a lot more civilised. Well, a bit.

One day we went to some nearby caves. They were all right as caves go, even if the guide sounded as if she'd done the tour once too often. I suppose there are only so many times you can explain the difference between stalagmites and stalactites. In fact, doing it once might be once too often.

Mrs J carried G all the way using a sling rather than a back carrier, in case G cracked her head (unlike the rest of us, she didn't get a hard hat). I thought G might get frightened or bored, especially as the tour was billed as the longest of its kind in Britain. As it was she just stared at everything in a slightly baffled sort of way, and made the odd echoing gurgle.

Because we had to double back on ourselves to get out, we actually only got to see half a mile of caves twice, instead of the "one mile" which apparently made the tour the "longest" in the country. But I suppose once you've seen half a mile of dank, dripping rock formations, there's not much left in that whole arena that can really excite you. Next time I forget which are stalagmites and which are stalactites, I'll just look on Wikipedia and save us all the bother.