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Little Hull Pot, Sunday 17th November,
The night was old and I was the last one still awake at the YSS hut. I walked through the kitchen, the smell of meat and spices still lingering from earlier cooking. A mountain of empty bottles protruded from the head of the bin. My thoughts were on bed, and the following days caving.
The CNCC describes Little Hull Pot as 'magnificent, and under-appreciated.' Indeed, a friend back home responded that they had never heard of it. I lay on the bunk, the smell of garlic and stale beer exuded from the body opposite, but my thoughts were my own:
What will tomorrow bring? Will I get some sleep? Will Lukas survive the night?
The next morning was a doctor's surgery at the YSS. Patients were discussing reasons to skip caving. Janis had tweaked his back two days prior and would not be caving today. Lukas, reminding us about the popping from his ribs from the previous day, opted for the simpler Sunset Hole. Limbs ached and mouths croaked. Talk was of a physio ball somewhere in the hut but there was no time for a massage, there was caving to be done.
The slogan 'Caving at Noon again' was bandied around, and while the teams were formed for Sunset Hole and Little Hull Pot, a gear fairy laid our equipment bags, ready and waiting outside of the YSS hut. With ailed bodies yet fervent spirit, and a sharp 'Are you coming?' from Paul, six of us set off to park at the base of proud Pen Y Ghent.
James, Paul, Dave, Andy, Lucas, and myself made the steep journey from Horton to Little Hull Pot. Conversation grew less as the incline steepened, but it wasn't long before we were watering the grass and preparing to enter our cave.
A crystal clear Pendle Hill stood proud on the horizon, but the suspicious movement of cloud cover created unease. It was decided to skip the final sections of the cave incase of a flood event.
With one tackle sack left at the entrance, easy crawling ensued on mostly hands and knees with a very short, flat out section. Progress flowed easily and single file down the streamway until our group came to a halt as rigging began at the pitch. While waiting, Paul took a look at my descending device and I suggested he have a go. Mostly to ensure that after struggling with it yesterday, it wasn't just my ineptitude.
However, as the procession of cavers slowly progressed, the subtle reputation of Little Hull was about to reveal itself.
An intriguing abseil hop through a window landed in a small chamber, where at the far end a near vertical traverse extended out above the abyss. Paul landed next to me, handing me back the Kong descender, ‘I couldn’t move,’ he said, so at least it wasn’t just me, then it was my time to traverse, and for just a small moment, a survival instinct kicked in and I wondered what I was doing with my life. The traverse extends, requiring from me smearing to progress outward, with little to support larger feet. Perhaps this is where the evolutionary trait of Morton's Toe might come in handy.
A descent with deviation is quickly followed by some simple caving to the next, spectacular pitch.
Older trip reports have found issues rigging near here, but the way on is through a minor, awkward slot to a cosy, jagged pitch head, and it here you are greeted with a truly fine pitch. It's as if you're stood atop the sharp bastion of stone on the seventh level of Minas Tirith, and the way onward is a descent from a y-hang several metres away from the edge. It is truly surprising and spectacular, and though on this occasion we elected to omit the lower sections in case of flooding, I suspect the drama of the descent will be bolstered beyond compare should your trip coincide with a cascade event flowing into the spectacular shaft.
And all to soon it is over. Paul was behind me and his feet had barely touched the bottom of the pitch when he was told to prusik back up the rope as our caving trip today was over.
I free climbed down the next section and passed through the water logged rift to speculate about a return trip, appreciating in the moment the group's concern that heavy rain would sump this section with haste.
One by one we ascended the main shaft, with James opting for a rope walking ascent while his stamina persisted before moving into some traditional frog prusiking. I was hoping to capture some dramatic photography but Paul shouted 'Matt next' and I assumed correctly that Paul recognised my inexperience and was waiting to offer assistance to get off the pitch and back on to the head of Minas Tirith.
With Paul's help I learned some lessons here: Trust your gear, use your cowstails to support yourself, and take your time to undo the spaghetti mess of gear after an ascent.
I thanked Paul for assistance and we joined the rest of the team as we waited on Lucas and Andy derigging.
The return trip was an uneventful mix of easy caving and prusiking. I took the gear bag from Andy and when finally emerging from the entrance to the cave, resting on the grass as I aspired to catch my breath following a crawling section while lugging gear, I showed some reverence to those who had already exited. While having good cardiovascular fitness is one thing, navigating stooped and jagged underground passages amongst seasoned troglodytes, I felt like a mewling straggler in comparison.
While waiting for Lucas and Andy, Paul suggested we have a quick look over at the Nearby Hull pot, whose splendour did not disappoint.
One of the most used quotes in a caver's repertoire would surely be, 'I must revisit this cave sometime.' and I will add to that stat. I look forward to revisiting Little Hull Pot both with a desire to rig, and a further desire to see the upper shafts in flood.
We rejoined the group and the six of us descended, the temperature cooling rapidly as the arctic blast was just beginning its assault on the country.

Trip time: Around 4 hours