South West Sea Kayaking

Kevin (background of photo) said, “Follow me”.

Alice (foreground) answered, “Are you kidding?”

This story (quite true) serves as a perfect metaphor. This weekend, Alice marries Kevin and follows him into the black abyss of … okay, maybe that metaphor doesn’t work so well.

Alice is posh, and used to work for the Queen. She is terrifyingly efficient and recently worked 24.8 hours a day for a full year to get her MA, scoring 106% for every test. Her husband-to-be is an unkempt commoner and once barged Prince Andrew out of his way to get to the beer (true story). Despite claiming to be a ‘Master of Synchronicity’, he is always unbelievably late to get ready for anything, especially paddling.

They are made for each other.

They are getting married in Iceland, in order to enjoy the Northern Lights. Heather and I fly out to Reykjavik tomorrow night. The weather is forecast to be -11 degrees Centigrade on arrival and beer is £5 a pint. Alice had better show up at the church …

Heather and I have written and photographed numerous magazine articles in the past, although we’ve put this all on hold in the past year to work on the book. However, we were contacted last year by Xlife, which is apparently Hong Kong’s leading (only?) extreme sports magazine. Xlife sought permission to translate a few previous articles we’d already published, into Mandarin Chinese! The article pictured dropped through the front door in print last week. It was written by Heather about Scotland’s Isle of Skye. This wonderful island is exotic enough for us Brits. I wonder how it seems to the citizens of China? The full Chinese version is here and the original (English) article is here.

In the meantime, Pesda Press are apparently working hard putting South West Sea Kayaking together. As far as I know there are no plans for a Chinese translation yet …

I’m no birdwatcher (birder? twitcher? bird fan?) but I do like our feathered friends, especially those found along our coasts. I’m currently reading a wonderful book about Britain’s birds that my mummy gave me for Christmas. What a pleasure then today, to have one of my best bird moments* ever.
*Yes I know that sounds vaguely dodgy, but I can’t think of a better way to phrase it.

We got out on the water in our sea kayaks for the first time in 2008, enjoying a glorious early morning along our local Purbeck coast. No camera I’m afraid, for all sorts of reasons far too boring to explain. The old photo above shows the site of Durlston Head’s guillemot colony, with a few of these fat little birds just visible lurking in the shadows. As we passed 200m offshore of this spot today, we were delighted to see a great many guillemots crowding the ledges; they’re back for the spring!

The birds began to take off from the ledges, and as the air around us became thick with the little blighters, we realised that there were quite a lot of them. The colony numbers about 400, but we saw at least twice that number. The birds kept coming for what seemed like forever, emerging in rows from the caves behind and swarming into the air. Mingled in were many razorbills, recognisable by their distinctive ‘razor’ beak but otherwise unusually attractive in their winter plumage. These fellows are usually less numerous hereabouts, which seems to explain the biblical deluge of birds; perhaps many of them are just stopping off on their way elsewhere?

A sad footnote; two people (a walker and a climber) fell off the cliffs near this spot in separate incidents a few hours later, and both appear to have been seriously injured. We were paddling with John G from the Swanage lifeboat, who had also been called out to a climbing incident the previous night. We met the two lifeboats out on exercise on our way back, not knowing at time that they’d shortly be called to rescue the victims. Our best wishes to those involved.

Many crave immortality, yet few achieve it. Dave Surman (age 103) is truly a legend in his own bathtime. ‘The Surmanator’ has achieved near-mythical status amongst those privileged to know him, despite having no immediately obvious function or purpose in the grand scheme of things.

I’m being very unfair … Dave ‘Rodeo Grandude’ Surman has actually introduced, inspired and coached a whole generation of young kayakers, many of whom are now stellar hotshots. Dave is however best known for his ability to reduce polite and patient waitresses to rage and tears. Hand him a menu and time how long it takes him to finish ordering his food …

Dave wanted to try his hand at sea kayaking, and joined us this summer in South Cornwall. We kicked off with a pleasant evening saunter down the River Fowey estuary, and camped near Fowey. We were then stuck there for days on end as successive waves of rain, wind, hail, frogs and locusts destroyed our paddling plans. In the end poor Dave headed home in despair, having paddled precisely zero distance on the sea proper. Maybe next year, Dave?

98.7% of the research for South West Sea Kayaking has come from this indispensible little tome. Random extracts …

St. Austell Brewery is Cornwall’s oldest and largest family-run business, owning 170 pubs and producing 30,000 barrels of beer a year.

Visitors to Cornwall spend an average of £32 per day on food and accommodation, visitors to London spend £76.

Cornwall’s first ever lifeboat station opened in Penzance in 1803, 12 years before the RNLI began.

The Tate St Ives took two years to build, costing over £3 million. In 2007, Tate St Ives saw its three millionth visitor.

The Tamar Bridge carries 16 million vehicles a year, 10 times more vehicles than when it opened. On a busy weekday, 50,000 vehicles drive over it.

The Cornwall and West Devon Mining Landscape received full World Heritage Site designation in 2006. This placed the two counties’ industrial wastelands alongside the Taj Mahal and The Great Wall of China! The new World Heritage Site encompasses a huge number of post-industrial mining ruins. They are clustered in ten different districts stretching from the Tamar Valley west to St Just, Britain’s most westerly town.

Why exactly did they bother? I quote …

‘This cultural landscape is a testament to the profoundly important process of pioneer metal mining, to its industrialisation, and to the innovations which occurred here and had a fundamental influence on the mining world at large during the nineteenth century.’

It’s good to see important industrial archaeology preserved, and Cornwall’s former economic importance commemorated. Otherwise, let’s be totally honest. Awarding World Heritage Status to a load of abandoned mining spoils and ruins sounds on paper like the worst idea ever.

But then, you actually experience it …

Kevin is the reason I had a hangover yesterday. He’s getting married in a couple of weeks, so we all gathered for his Stag Night, which involved all manner of japes, such as … <edited - WHOTRSOTR>

Anyway, Kevin is yet another whitewater paddler friend who likes to slow down and enjoy the sea from time to time. He paddled to the Isles of Scilly with me a few days after buying his first sea kayak, and he has joined us for a number of trips this year. Kevin is very much into the campcraft side of sea paddling. In fact, he’s unhealthily obsessed with survivalist-bushcraft-Ray-Mears-type nonsense, and can usually be found lighting fires in pouring rain using wet moss and cow turds, whilst the rest of us head off to the pub for dinner. Kevin is also infamous for;

- Taking twice as long as everyone else to get changed.
- Being obsessed with shiney new colour co-ordinated paddling gear.
- Scaring small children.
- Wearing silly hats.
- Scaring llamas.
- Having no idea how many sisters his fiancee has, or what they are called.

Anyway Kevin, we’re all delighted that you and Alice are getting married. See you at the wedding!

Apologies for the awful photo quality- these pictures were taken by a mobile phone and I had (have) a hangover. I crossed the road from our hotel on Brighton seafront this morning, to get some fresh sea air and clear my head. I was amazed to see wood strewn all along the beach and floating in large expansive rafts out to sea. The photos don’t do it justice, inevitably.

It would seem that the ‘wood slick’ shed from the deck of the Ice Prince has completely bypassed the Dorset and Devon coast, drifting at least 90 miles east to fetch up on the shores of Sussex. Sussex doesn’t feature in South West Sea Kayaking, so I’m mightily relieved; it means that I don’t have to re-edit or change anything. Why was I in Sussex at all? The clue is in the grainy final photo, the quality of which accurately reflects the clarity of my memory of last night. We were gathered for the Stag Night of Kevin F (pictured), of whom more tomorrow.

Having drifted across Lyme Bay and past Portland Bill, the Ice Prince sank 28 miles south of St Alban’s Head (far headland in the above photo), indeed 32 miles almost directly south of my house.

Apart from the aforementioned oil, she was carrying a cargo of timber, 5238 tonnes of it, to be precise. 2000 tonnes were on the deck and will already be arriving on our local coast as I write. Well, a mountain of timber isn’t ideal, but the Ice Prince could of course have been transporting far more noxious things, I guess that we are lucky.

By coincidence, the 2002 wreck of the Kodima at Whitsand Bay in Cornwall also led to masses of timber washing ashore. Scavengers quickly descended, and much of the timber (allegedly) disappeared into the walls of the sheds that adorn the cliffs behind. Although the authorities have warned against scavenging timber on the Dorset and Devon coast, presumably the car parks of B&Q and Homebase will be unusually quiet this weekend …

Recently, Brixham Coastguard, the French Coastguard, the Royal Navy,  Whisky Bravo, and the lifeboats of Salcombe and Torbay have all been having a busy time offshore of Devon.

The Ice Prince is now adrift in the English Channel, carrying 313 metric tonnes of oil amongst other hazardous things. It’s impossible not to feel a sense of déjà vu …

LIke most people I paddle with on  the sea, Graham is a white water paddler moonlighting on the salty stuff. Indeed, I met him today for a run on the splendid River Dart. Graham runs Ringwood Canoe Club and has paddled whitewater all over the world. I’m delighted to say that he is joining us on our trip to paddle in India this Easter. For a living, Graham … actually, I’ve just realised that I have no idea at all what Graham does for a living and I don’t think that he has ever told me. Probably something illegal, or immoral, or both.

I once turned up at Graham’s canoe club, at his invitation, to give a talk … a week late. Sorry Graham.

Chris is known as ‘Tiff’, and lives in Calstock beside the River Tamar. He is currently doing a ‘gap year’ before heading off to Uni. From his front door he can paddle down the Tamar into Plymouth Sound and then out to sea. Indeed he frequently does so, and then paddles right back again. He has far too much energy; evidenced by his winning of the Eddystone Challenge last year.

Chris was good enough to guide us on a great paddle through his local waters, letting us know all sorts of things that aren’t in guidebooks. Want to know what’s in the moored MOD barges? Don’t ask! Chris has since paddled with us in North Devon.

Cheers Chris!

In 1997 I first paddled around the south west, and on subsequent occasions I have picked up the mantle of that trip and continued around the UK coast in stages; I hope to have completed the UK for my 40th birthday! Anyway, in 2005 I paddled the Irish Sea coast of Wales and England. I’d hoped to get well into Scotland, but outrageous weather brought my trip to a rude halt, a days’ paddle short of the border. I spent five particularly frustrating days, just waiting to cross Morecambe Bay. Here’s some pretentious dross I penned back then, reflecting upon that journey …

ENNUI

\on-WEE; ON-wee\, noun: A feeling of weariness and dissatisfaction; dullness and languor of spirits, arising from lack of interest; boredom.

I realise I am awake. I haven’t been asleep for hours, yet this is the first time I’m conscious. The slapslapslap of the flysheet tells all. Eyes tight, I extend a hand from my bag and fumble for my Nokia. I press out an ingrained key sequence. Eventually I summon will to squint at the display.
IRISH SEA WEST OR NORTHWEST 6 TO GALE 8 DECREASING 4 OR 5, BACKING SOUTH OR SOUTHWEST 5 OR 6 LATER. RAIN OR SHOWERS.
Same old same old. I draw my hood over my head, and zone out for a few more hours.

I am about to completely miss Ramsey Sound. My head is down, but I am being sucked inexorably to seaward of Ramsey Island. Several hours into a three week journey, already I’m embarrassed by my own incompetence. A flurry of long strokes and finally I clear the tip of the island…on the correct side. Now allied with the flood tide, I surge down towards the broken bottle silhouette of the Bitches rocks. I spy paddlers ferrying across to play the Bitches tidal race. I envy them, but not for the top wave; they have company and camaraderie. My friends are on a ferry to Norway. Tonight I’ll camp and dine alone. The boat accelerates amongst the swirls of Horse Rock, and only slows when it reaches Whitesands Bay. I am not alone. A solitary porpoise and I share the last rays.

Afternoon; I force myself to get up and boil some noodles. As the rain rattles the walls, I take stock. The interior of my space capsule is littered with chocolate and sweet wrappers, newspapers, Lucozade bottles, crushed clothes. My sleeping bag is dank from sweat and condensation. I have no mirror, but guess I am no oil painting. I retrieve the radio from under a pile of charts, and tune through a forest of static. Soporific dance music, or cricket.

I have cut in too close around the point at Newquay, and collided with a back eddy. The sudden violence of the breaking waves is daunting. I accelerate to a sprint but my kayak is static. I veer inshore and off, trying to surf my way out. Dry and warm minutes ago, I’m now drenched to my armpits and wiping salt from my eyes. I find purchase against the current and judge I am making headway, but the harbour wall refuses to fall back. Seagulls tear the air apart with their cries and I’m cursing wildly to no one in particular. I gain an audience. In unison on either side, curved dorsal fins pierce the surface, rising to expose slick grey backs. Within touch of both paddle blades, I have a dolphin escort. I curse harder, in awed disbelief.

I emerge before dawn, unable to ignore my bladder. Steadying myself in the porch, I aim into the bushes. Only with my business finished do I realise that the rain has moved on. I am the only person witnessing these sparkling stars. The orange glow to the south denotes garish Blackpool, but I am transfixed by the view north, ten miles across Morecambe Bay to Barrow. Deciphering the urban glare, I can make out the immense derricks and submarine units of the dockyards. The wind feels less defined. Could this be it? I can be on the water in under an hour. I am already stuffing away my down jacket before I take a reality check. The wind will soon return in force. Either way; huge seas bar the crossing, whipped up by a backlog of storms. It is not going to happen this time, just like all the other times. Am I making good decisions? Am I fabricating lame apologies? This is worse than anything by far. With no one to bounce ideas off, I relive this quandary a hundred times daily.

Bardsey Sound has been oversold. My ‘Irish Sea Pilot’ brimmed with calamity tales about the quirks of local wind and tide, but I am gliding along a shimmering expanse of blue perfection. Rounding the Lleyn Peninsula, I accumulate flow and pace. Today it comes easy, all effort absorbed by the unheralded beauty of this coast. The day’s allotted paddling hours are up, but today I need no motivation targets. The boat courses on with ease whilst quarried mountains loom over the sea, hemmed by quiet villages with names I’ll never grasp. Later I plot the next leg over pasta and pesto. I am startled to see that forty miles have eased by; how could this have been so pleasurable?

I have joined the Lancashire Library Service. Killing a morning at the keyboard, I trawl through any and every weather website. I alight upon any minor disparities between forecasts, as if this will somehow wish the wind away. I check the paddling message boards and post updates of my non-progress. I read my posting of a week ago, ludicrously announcing that by now I’d be in Scotland. Later I walk along the sea front, transfixed by the kite surfers. The tent is safe, hidden at the back corner of a golf course. I have ‘text’; a local paddler has heard of my enforced stay in Fleetwood and offers food and shelter. I am stunned by such consideration from a stranger, but embarrassed to take it up. Perhaps this isn’t the sole reason. I am dimly aware that I am relishing the ennui.

Hilbre Island is a low sandstone bluff, marking the point where the River Dee meets the Irish Sea. Wales ends here in this disorientating landscape, where sand overcomes sea for much of the day. Observed coolly by languorous seals, I launch an hour before sunset. I paddle north for an hour, hard. A half submerged wreck initially seems vast, but perspective proves to be distorted here. Miles from dry land, I wade and drag for a time. The swell gains definition; deep water. I alter course to cross the Mersey estuary. I knew the light would fade, but I am counting on the full moon. This is ascending behind Liverpool docks, too slowly. My headtorch fails even to illuminate my compass. I am lost. I pick out some lights and take my chances. Feeling my way blind, I stumble into a tidal race. The waves feel huge in the pitch dark. Terrified but exhilarated, I emerge right beside the Mersey Channel where a giant tug is passing. Its spotlights pick out the kayaker, a tiny intruder in the big boy’s playground. An hour later, I make landfall – on sand, by lucky chance - and discover that I am directly outside the Liverpool Coastguard Station. The night watch are concerned and sceptical. After they’ve examined my equipment and heard my story, smiles break out. I am welcomed inside as a guest, albeit a late one.

In the early hours of the sixth morning, I finish another book. By now I am tuned to the movements of the tent; something is different. I emerge and I look to Barrow once more. No doubt this time, the wind has eased. The sea is grey-brown mush, but has calmed appreciably. This is it. I engage myself with hurried packing, refusing to permit myself space to revisit my decision. I am outside the surf break and already making ground towards Barrow through the peaks and troughs. The panorama of Morecambe Bay expands around me. I can see Lake District peaks and even my old university, white buildings against a Pennine backdrop. With inconvenient timing, a ferry emerges down the Lune Channel, and then two more large ships; I have to sit tight as they pass, bracing into the waves. Something is wrong; the swell is smashing right up their bows. Once they they’ve passed, I regain pace and enter the channel. Right away I am hitting very big water. Waves are surging and breaking around me. My nerves force a physical reaction; I retch. I try to rationalise my circumstances before fear predominates. My incredibly stupid, obvious error is that I am trying to cross as tide flows from the bay against the wind and swell. The tide is exaggerating and steepening the waves. Turning back will not be easy, but continuing could be catastrophic. Haste and impatience have brought me here. I am engulfed by a world of foam. My mind wanders to another place, not so far way. I have now a solution, and it is simple. I draw my hood over my head, and zone out for a few more hours.

Second in the mug’s gallery of paddlers who have joined us in the south west this year, is Liz. Liz has letters after her name (ooh, get her) but wears her learning lightly. Liz only first got into the salty side of kayaking this year, and has joined us on a doomed attempt to round Portland Bill as well as more successful trips to the Holm Islands and Purbeck. She has also flown up to the Outer Hebrides for a weeks’ sea paddling, so must have caught the bug.

Despite being an experienced white water paddler who has survived all sorts of scary things on rivers, Liz managed to hospitalise herself during an otherwise sedate sea kayaking trip, by tripping over a potentially lethal pavement.

My wife Heather has suggested that I introduce readers to those who were good enough to paddle with me last year during my south west research. This was a more grinding experience than might be imagined; these folk had to put up with endless deviations and diversions, stops and starts and also, “Hang on …”s whilst I fumbled with the camera. But here goes then, in the coming weeks I’ll try to do justice to as many of those who helped me last year as possible.

nb. If you are a stalker, please skip this, and all subsequent related blog posts.

First up is Claire.

Claire is a senior bod of some description in medical management. Being tragically afflicted with workaholicism, she doesn’t get out to play often enough in her spangly Rockpool kayak. However, she skipped work and joined Heather and I for a week at the end of summer holidays. Claire somehow managed to arrive along with some of the best weather (and scenery) of the whole holiday, and was there when we completed what was officially judged to be the Best Day-trip Ever. Claire also participated in our extended survey of Cornwall’s chip shops, judging those of St Ives to win hands down. Cheers, Claire.