Troglodytic Vole

Finally this weekend, I visited Poole's Cavern in Buxton, a magical wonderland of stalagmites and stalactites (-mites grow up, -tites come down). It was a prehistoric, Roman and Saxon mining/factory area, religious site and resort of outlaws and scoundrels. Highly recommended.

The 'Flitch of Bacon' stalactite

Remains of the Victorian gas lamp

Not a single person giggled at these on the tour I took. The guides claim they're called 'poached egg' stalagmites. A likely story.

Stalactites reflected in a pool of water

Autumnal copper beech leaves

My first attempt at a 'zoom burst' shot. Should have used a tripod, but not bad. 

These boots are made for walking

Good afternoon to you all from the Midlands.

You may have noticed that I've been away for a few days - I went walking with some of the Map Twats (Cynical Ben, Neal and James: Dan's away with his girlfriend, the smug git). We started at the Cat and Fiddle pub, perched high up between Macclesfield and Buxton, then walked along to Shining Tor, down round the reservoir, stopped for an effete lunch (fine butties, rabbit, hare and venison pie), then slogged upwards again for seemingly hours, running out of water somewhat inopportunely. I took pictures, of course, and they may be seen here. It's a while since we went out, and I was surprised how exhausted we all were - the unexpected heat sapped us, and our legs ached for several days afterwards. Sunburn was also a bit of a problem.

In the end, it was a glorious route and a good day's walk. Ben's various opinions were amusing and enlightening and as usual, when two or three are gathered, I was the victim. Having discovered a nineteenth-century Jewish ancestor, I outlined my sense that they are all antisemites, to much amusement from my persecutors.

Ben returned home to his wife, who seemed much amused by us as usual, and James took us home to his elegant new bachelor pad in Chester. After a preliminary few real ales, we ended up at a semi-indie night at Telford's Warehouse, a swish bar/club on the canalside. Somewhat predictably, we ended up dancing like fools to all sorts of rubbish. The climax was Neal and James putting on a virtuoso interpretation of 'Hammer Time', which led to them temporarily making friends with a pair of discerning young ladies while I retired from the field - discretion is, after all, the better part of valour.

The next day saw a good deal of snoozing, mooching around town, pool games and more real ale in some astonishing places, before a more low key return to Telford's Warehouse, by which time James's dancefloor exertions had resulted in a pronounced limp. Sunday was very much a day of rest - a fine Sunday lunch in a village pub and a reluctant trek back to Stumville.