Subterranean Epochal Deposition Blues

Perhaps it's not a particularly original west-country tourist destination, but then we're not partcularly original west-country tourists, and if ever there's a new experience for a little person who has never been in a cave, it's going in a cave. So Cheddar Gorge.

We drove down in convoy, and needless to say (as far as I can recall) got lost somewhere - though in a good-natured way - but almost immediately realised the error of our way and pulled a hasty mid-stream u-turn.

We arrived at the Gorge and it was a buzz though not a throng, lovely little England postcard material, you know, rocky outcrops with little cottages and shops hugging the contours of the rock they were built upon, perhaps not unsurprisingly all apparently owned by the same company in some sort of consolidated all-in super-coordinated exercise in (literal) tourist cheese.

We traveled up the Gorge until some car shaped spaces appeared for us to slot our cars into, and we slotted our cars into them before finding out that we paid for the parking at the caves, where we paid for our parking, realising that if we'd tried to argue the toss about parking rates we'd have ended up caving in anyway. So we caved in without worrying about the argument, and without further ado into the caves we descended.

James and Jane and Erin and Noah had soon left us behind as we ambled around and we didn't see them again until we emerged from the impressive cathedral of rock into the oppositely impressive shop and stopped for a coffee at the ubiquitous Costa del Caffeine.