A chapter from my life where I attempted to rescue an invisible girl from the murky depths of a quarry
Darren Worrow
Itâs 2015 and Iâm just a shitty delivery driver blindly following a sat-nav through Oxfordshire, thatâs how much I progressed in my life. Yeah could blame it on my youth, but Iâd rather not reminisce on the endless parties, psychedelia and various shenanigans. Much as nostalgia gratifies me, they all blur into one great festival of perpetual hedonism. But memories slip into the empty fish-tank of my head whilst voyaging along these monotonously congested roads.
Using back roads Iâm passing through the sleepy village of Cassington, a shard of recollection sweeps, a chapter from my life where I attempted to rescue an invisible girl from the murky depths of a quarry with a lone traveller non too impressed by the authenticity of the emergency.
Thing is there seems to be no sign of a railway track here and I distinctly recall a train track in which âravers,â as they were termed during the period, were sternly warned by the master of ceremonies, not to sunbathe or even wander the train track, being it was a train track and well, trains tend to trek along them; understandable concern really.
I find, some way out of the village a railway over a bridge, I stop there for a smoke-o and scan the horizon for a quarry. Yeah this must be the track but, jaded as my memory is, I know accurately there was a quarry too; have good reason to.
Does it matter, why do I feel the need to locate the sites of these wild free raves for anyway, to relish in memories of gold, to recapture my youth, or simply to have confirmation these things really happened at all?
You see if you came here looking to precise details about the event I apologise, it may be the passing of the years, or the man in the Brocade trilby and puffer-jacket who kindly sold me some party accessories, but my memory is jaded.
I cannot recall how I got there, estimating my friend and I scrounged a lift by hanging outside our local watering hole asking any passer-by if they were going to the party, as that was our usual method pre-driving test. With equal vagueness I recall getting home, but as for the bit in the middle, well, memories are fond and surprisingly vivid.
A year away from the supermassive events at Lechlade and Castlemorton this occasion was sizable, wedged in a valley between the train lines and the quarry, a grassland dancefloor was packed, with the sound system situated to the east and the car parking area to the west.
The party was humming and I did my traditional meandering away from friends who favoured loitering at the car parking zone. Still in darkness around the dance area I perchance to befriend a rather charismatic young lady with a Cheshire cat grin and eyes like saucers.
We danced for an undeterminable period, but time was never an issue here. Then we stepped back to take a breather where she kindly shared her bottle of water and lent me a chewing gum to ease my vibrating jaw, a symptom of the aforementioned party accessories.
At that time the modern designer drug they called simply âEâ was costly compared with the price tag of later years, but rather than exorbitant they had a higher quality which the later versions simply never matched. Nevertheless budget was low and I would top up my experience with a square of cardboard they dubbed âacid.â In my infinite wisdom, rather than stash said cardboard square upon my person for later consumption, I feared I may lose it and therefore the best storage option I had was my stomach.
Miraculously I convinced the girl to saunter up the bank with me under the cunning temptation of constructing a cannabis cigar. We wandered and chatted, I expressed my emotional state; how in awe I was at the serenity and togetherness of the raves and pondered if only real life could harness this ethos. My profound ramblings were lost though when she turned her head and said, âYou what mate? Youâll have to speak up; Iâm partially deaf in this ear.â
Enjoying each otherâs company, we covered some ground; over the bank and into dark reedy grassland. I stopped as the greenness below seemed to halt, there was a clear drop ahead; into a disused quarry, I was led to believe.
It was at this point I looked up to the starry night but as I dropped my head back to Earth she had vanished. I called her name and her reply came, âIâm down here!â
As much as the manner of intoxication caused a collective and calm experience, I fear meshed with the cardboard square, things tended to get muddled. I panicked, figuring she had fallen into the quarry. Had I turned around or at least sensed the voice came from behind and not in front of me, I may have realised she simply descended the bank, back towards the rave.
Rational thinking I called down, ordering her to stay there and I would get help. I shifted along the bank, plunging once I spotted a travellerâs coach. Figuring if anyone could assist it would be them; they were bound to have a rope if anyone here had. I threw myself at a large chap, attired in traditional traveller garb and crusty dreadlocks. After a short communication breakdown the kindly fellow realised I wasnât seeking party accessories and managed to produce a tow-rope and powerful torch.
Not willing to part with them he joined me on the rescue. United we peered over the bank, I was certain I had returned to the exact point, he was doubtful of my sense of direction. The traveller shone his torch down there and called down, increasing his pessimism about my claim. I assured him it was real, even pointed out she was deaf in one ear.
As he grew fretful of my sanity, I grew concerned she was unconscious down there and tried to convince him I was authentically in trouble. He shook his head and instructed me to taunt the end of the towrope as he steadied himself and lowered himself down the perilous side of the bank. He scrambled a quarter down and shone his effective torch at the bottom of the dry quarry. Then returned to the surface to inform me he could not see anyone down there.
If I was sure, he ascertained with a sigh, we needed help. So we dashed to his coach to rally some able-bodied men. Upon our return I was dismayed, and looked out at the dancing ravers having fun, blissfully unaware of the peril one of their tribe was currently in. It was at that point one charismatic young lady with a Cheshire cat grin and eyes like saucers passed by, looking strikingly similar to the girl down the quarry. âAlright mate?â she grinned as she passed, âwhat happened to you, I was looking for ya?â
Once explained the situation to the travellers and made a quick exit, I referred the anecdote to the girl and she nodded her understanding but, was gone from my life as quick as she came into it; sensible choice reallyâŚ..