BLACKETT LEVEL ADVENTURE

Whilst most people know something of the area’s rich lead mining history, I sometimes wonder how many realise quite how industrious (and indeed populated) the area once was. The evidence is all around us, for those who dare to search it out, and last summer I was given an opportunity I couldn’t refuse; a trip down the Blackett Level. There are some intrepid folk around these parts and I apologise in advance if what follows seems a little melodramatic. Frank Unsworth for example has been down virtually every mine shaft in the area and tells stories of scaling wooden ladders that have been calcified into rock, finding sticks of dynamite that were abandoned by the lead mining entrepreneurs of yesteryear and being the first to rediscover routes that have not been trodden for upwards of a century. I cannot compete with that, and to him this tale will sound a little tame - but to me it was an adventure!

My companions were Gordon Whitfield, David Robson and Gavin Foster and our plan was to abseil down the old shaft from Studdon Dene and to walk downstream to the mouth of the level by the riverside walk in Allendale. Back at the office, we left strict instructions for the emergency services to be called if we didn’t turn up by four o’clock (bear in mind that two of our party were the Allendale emergency services!). It had been more than twenty years since I had last abseiled, so swinging out over the dark void of the shaft was a little nerve racking. One hundred feet below, Gordon was already exploring the mine. When we were all down, he and Gavin headed upstream where they quickly found themselves short of oxygen. There’s precious little air down there. Huffing and puffing, they joined a more relaxed David and me on the easy start to the long walk out. More than two miles downstream, we could clearly see the pinprick of light marking the exit of the level – testimony to the quality of the engineering of those who originally carved this tunnel through the solid rock. It was reassuring to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Sections of the level were beautifully constructed with hand hewn bricks, each interlocking to form a perfect arch, perfectly sized to accommodate a Dales pony. Others were just carved out of the solid rock – we could still see the chisel marks. Underfoot, we could feel remains of the old cart tracks. The odd fag packet, beer bottle and lump of candle wax showed that we were not the first to have explored the route.

Our journey downstream was fine to start with, the water no more than wellie height. But further on it got deeper, much deeper, where the roof had collapsed and the water had backed up. At its worst, the water came up to our armpits, and our heads were on the ceiling. Only Gordon had wisely equipped himself with a wetsuit, and the rest of us shivered in the cold.

In all, the journey took about an hour and a half, and we were quite relieved to finally climb over the grille at mouth of the level and soak up some of the late summer sunshine. We stripped off as quickly and discretely as we could, but were surprised by a couple of walkers. Thankfully they were more amused than offended. Once back in dry clothes, we retreated to the Kings Head hoping for a hot chocolate but had to settle for a beer.