Part One of the Tuesday Nighters’ Red Rake adventures went so well that some of us who missed it promptly demanded a rerun. So—because we’re apparently incapable of saying no to wet holes in the Peak District—off we went again.
Seven of us assembled: Edvin, Ade, Jenny, Chris, John, Pete, and myself..
It’s only a short walk to the entrance, which is the kind of beautiful sough that makes you forget you’re about to spend several hours voluntarily wading through cold water. They don’t call it Red Rake for nothing—the stones lit up red under our lamps.
Katie had insisted we could make it a round trip using the boat. Yes, the boat. Naturally, we decided this sounded like an excellent challenge and went for it.
We plunged straight into waist-deep water. This would have been fine, except it’s been raining for approximately forty days and forty nights, so the water temperature was somewhere between “refreshing” and “why are we doing this to ourselves?”
Photos by Ade Pedley
Dripping but determined, we left the water and entered the mine proper. Handlines, climbs, levels—Red Rake had it all. Stemples in the roof hinted at long-lost passages above.
One particular climb required so much precision that “LAF” was mentioned. the message was clear: anyone below should get as far back as possible as the climb was held by a questionable deviation which barely held back the rubble.
Chris, not satisfied with the normal levels, climbed up to some old ladders whose rungs disintegrated faster than a biscuit in tea. This did not deter him in the slightest. He poked around another level simply because gravity hadn’t slowed him down.
While the group was large enough we eventually herded ourselves downward to search for the boat. Chris and Pete detoured down a lower climb into what they claimed was more mine .We assume they would rejoin us in a bit.
Reunited, we finally reached the clear blue water. With some gentle rope-hauling we coaxed the giant inflatable tube towards us and enjoyed a very dignified float across. No one fell in. No one capsized. A triumph.
Back at the entrance, the snow had started falling… although “slush hurled from above” is probably more accurate. We’d explored so thoroughly that there was no time left for pints, which is frankly the most shocking part of the whole story. I’ll be having two next week to compensate.
Brilliant company, brilliant evening—another Tuesday night trip in the bag.