I'd been reading up about
Sir Francis Dashwood and the
Hellfire Club recently - for research or pleasure, take your pick - and decided since another roadtrip out of London was well overdue, I'd head out to West Wycombe and go visit the
Hellfire Caves.
I coerced my sister and we drove out, marvelling at the cheaper petrol prices in the countryside, and the quaint village of West Wycombe, complete with crazy old crooked buildings and
old-fashioned sweet shop.
The caves themselves were good creepy fun (one family that came in a minute behind us only got about 20 feet before the youngest child - probably around 5 or so - started wailing and had to be taken back out) - lots of dripping water and echoey, dimly lit paths and creepy ass waxworks. Awesome.
When we emerged back into the sunlight, we aimed for the
Dashwood Mausoleum. While I'm sure there's a more sensible route, we couldn't seem to find one, so started walking up the steep hill that soon became almost vertical. As we scrabbled up the slope - no useful grass or shrubs to grab on to that high up, just dirt and scree and a few odd roots that you hang on to for dear life - a small boy came bounding past us and asked if we wanted a hand. I've never felt more like an old lady; almost gave that cheeky young whippersnapper a clip round the ear...
The mausoleum was actually quite impressive up close and the church behind it very charming and full of Dashwood family history, but after scrabbling back down the same slope we'd had to climb up, only a visit to the aforementioned sweet shop and then one of the village pubs could soothe us enough to be able to drive home...
