South West Sea Kayaking – Savage Shores   Sea Kayaking in South West England – Britain's Coastal Environment

Below is an article that I wrote about my 2008 summer jaunt. It was earlier published in Canoe Kayak UK magazine. I hope that it’s an enjoyable read …

North by North West

Last summer, I paddled from Cumbria in England to Scotland’s north-east extremity, John O’Groats. This journey was nearly 600 miles long (557 actually, but ‘nearly 600’ sounds more impressive) taking in all of Scotland’s west and north coasts. I actually rather enjoyed myself, but the problem with sea kayaking trips is that they become Incredibly Boring when described on paper; ‘Day #28 – paddled forwards. Day #29 – ditto. Day#30 – paddled some more zzzzz’. Hence, in the following article, I’m going to ditch any pretence at writing a coherent article and simply throw a few random stories your way. I’ll tell you about the bits of my trip that worked for me; I hope that they work for you also. The following vignettes (=pretentious term for ‘stories’) are roughly in order, and some of them may almost certainly probably not be made up.

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I’m lying prone in a flapping tent on a south Cumbrian beach, a long way south of the Irn Bru latitude. Outside, there is nothing to see except foaming seas and Sellafield nuclear power station. I’ve been stuck here for two days, and thus far my Big Trip has advanced precisely Zero miles. On the positive side, I’ve finally found time to read a book on Sea Kayak Navigation that I’ve had kicking around for a couple of years. It’s a good job I’ve read it before setting off, because it turns out I’ve been doing everything all wrong up to now. Oops. Every now and then, a disconcerting BANG! makes me jump; just to my north is some kind of rocket firing range. They’ve reassured me that when I do finally manage to launch, they’ll, “Fire around me.”

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I’m playing Join-The-Dots with islands and headlands, working my way across and along the Solway Firth. Conventional wisdom has it that open crossings are quite boring, but in actual fact they are Incredibly Boring. However, they do have their moments. Shearwaters are seabirds named for their tendency to fly with one wingtip trailing barely millimetres above the ocean swell. Thousands of Shearwaters idle their days offshore in the Firth, floating in rafts. As I approach each raft, hundreds arise and glide in endless tight circles under my bow and stern. Sitting for hours in the calm epicentre of my own personal hurricane, I occasionally get dizzy and disorientated from trying to follow their movement.

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I’m four hours out from dry land, and I can’t see anything. A rainy evening gloom has descended, making it impossible to gain any sense of distance or perspective. I am very much hoping that I’ll spot the Mull of Galloway sometime very soon. Otherwise, I’ll have to reasonably assume that I’m heading to Ireland, courtesy of the powerful tide races that I’ve been bounced through. A single dim spot of light reveals itself through the murk off to my left. I hold my breath, and it is repeated after 20 seconds. Mull of Galloway lighthouse! I am exactly on target, and mightily relieved.

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I pull up late onto a secluded beach. Parked in the field above, I’m surprised to see a row of Vauxhall Novas, bedecked with racing spoilers and go-faster stripes. I am greeted by a crowd of Newcastle and Glasgow teenagers who are kind enough to offer me a “tinny”. The sleepless night that follows is entirely my own fault; all I have to do is paddle a few miles further, but I decide to camp here. The lads are on a major bender; why here, of all Godforsaken spots? They shout and drink crappy lager through to 5 am, at which point one of them tries to nick my boat for a dawn paddle. Harsh words are spoken.

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I’ve taken a gamble on the state of my fitness and decided to take a 30 mile short cut across the Firth of Clyde to the Mull of Kintyre (of McCartney fame). A 7.30 am launch sees me frantically paddling clear of the hydrofoil ferries departing Stranraer every eight seconds. I relax by listening in on an inane radio conversation between two distant Irish fishing boats about the “Wee orange boat” they’ve spotted. Halfway, a Monrovian freighter sails past with the crew assembled on deck to wave. I’m then ditched sharply back into reality when my VHF battery dies without warning. I am very alone with no one to rely on other than myself, and a long way to go. My navigation is duff; I’ve underestimated the tide’s strength. The Mull presents a target ten miles across and 500 metres high, but I’m about to miss it. The only solution is crude muscle power. I paddle flat out to stay on track, trying to blot out my screaming shoulders. After six hours afloat, I ground on a sandy beach and collapse in exhaustion, much to the bemusement of lobster-hued holidaying families.

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I haven’t met or spoken to anyone for days. I put the tent up in the rain, take it down in the rain, paddle in the rain. With midges. And sheep shit. Then the same the next day, and the next. Groundhog Day. The radio confirms that this lousy weather is apparently breaking records. One worrying consequence of this grim monotony is that my thoughts grow dark. For hour after hour on the water under claustrophobic low cloud, I attempt to keep my spirits up by focusing on positive thoughts, but find myself dwelling on unhappy memories and misanthropy.

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Ardnamurchan Point is the westernmost point on Britain’s mainland, a remote headland marked by a slender Stephenson lighthouse. In the night, I crawl from my tent and do my business. Only partly awake, I am aware that something is Different but cannot put my finger on exactly what. Overhead, the Milky Way sparkles in three dimensions. But that’s not it. Indistinct fingers of shimmering colour daub the horizon. I realise that I’m experiencing the Aurora Borealis; the Northern Lights.

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It’s dawn and I’m a pinprick in the Sea of the Hebrides, bluntly downscaled by surrounding mountainous islands. Ahead, the serrated Cuillins rear from the Isle of Skye, summits pinpointed by shafts of warm sunrise light. I’ve launched early to beat the weather forecast, but as I close on Skye, a headwind forms and the novelty begins to wear off. Right on cue, a pair of glistening dolphins erupt from the water and commence an extended performance of astounding aerial backflips. This takes place for no discernable reason than for my personal entertainment.

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Rounding the Point of Stoer, rolling groundswell is sculpted into curling breakers by manic offshore winds. A gigantic stack looms through the haze of surf spray; The Old Man of Stoer. The mountains looming over the far horizons are unfamiliar and bizarre in form. I have before now held the opinion that Scotland, whilst undeniably lovely, all looks pretty much the same. I’m now reconsidering. Somewhere north of Skye I have crossed some geological boundary and this far north-west scenery is astonishing. I lack the vocabulary to describe these surroundings, an alien landscape hidden away in my own nation.

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Sandwood Bay is the final beach before Cape Wrath, Britain’s daunting north-west extremity. I’m wound up and frustrated. Screaming winds and building surf conspire to trap me in this isolated spot for days. Two days running, I load up ready to launch, but then abort and tediously set up camp all over again. The worst part is the information vacuum. I can’t raise the Coastguard on my VHF, my mobile is useless and there are no internet cafes in sight. Refusing to acknowledge that I simply need to trust my own judgement, I desperately crave further information and advice. I take a long walk around the hills in the hope of picking up a signal. After four fruitless hours, I return after sunset to Sandwood. From a mile away, I see that my kayak has gone. The tide has surged several metres higher than forecast, overtopping the beach. Calamity! A search in the dark locates the boat some way along the beach, entangled in the surf with a foul smelling whale carcass. I have a back hatch full of sand, but there is no damage. Somehow, the offshore winds have failed to blow it away. My trip is still on.

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I’m away clear of the surf and I’m closing fast. The cliffs of Cape Wrath roll, pitch and yaw before me as I accelerate towards the cloud-shrouded lighthouse. Occasionally my target disappears from view altogether behind startlingly large standing waves. Despite repeated tidal calculations to avoid precisely this, I’ve somehow managed to hit the peak of the spring tide races. The flows veer alarmingly offshore; I have to recall a few whitewater basics to cross the surging eddylines and stay on track under the sheltering cliffs. Then suddenly, completely calm waters. I rest directly below the light. The Vikings named this cape not for its undeniably wrathful seas, but because for them it was just a junction; ‘hvarf’, a turning place. I turn east and carry on paddling.

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I’m irrationally uncomfortable with Scotland’s north coast. I paddle 60 miles of these shores without spotting another vessel. Try as I might, I can’t help being vexed by the agoraphobic notion that there is nothing between my left shoulder and the North Pole but pack ice. Over my right shoulder thankfully is reassuring dry land, albeit characterised by vertiginous sandstone cliffs and gaping palatial cave entrances. Rounding Strathy Point, I close inshore – desperate for some company – and wave to foreign tourists on the headland. They jump up and down and point at me frantically. I wave again, and they jump and point with even more animation. This charade is repeated several more times. Am I really that exciting? Eventually I realise that they are actually pointing at the seven tonne basking shark that I had somehow failed to notice ambling alongside within reach of my paddle. The knowledge that the world’s second largest fish does not snack on humans fails to dispel my north coast angst.

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I’m camped at Duncansby Head, the north-east tip of Britain. Nearby, the tacky attractions of John O’Groats attract busloads of tourists. Frankly there are worse ways to pass the successive windy days than sitting in cafes watching them. I need to decide where my journey is actually headed and an answer is slowly forming. I had considered a heroic dash north through the Orkney and Shetland Isles to the very top of Britain, but the bad weather provided a reality check. Heading on down the east coast certainly appeals, but the wind seems determined not to let this happen. My decision is made. Before dawn on the final day, I step from my tent. I watch around a hundred seals snoring loudly a few metres away on the beach. I’m bemused that they sleep so soundly, as their eerie wailing has woken me numerous times in previous nights, drowning out the sounds of more than one passing gale. This is good enough for me. I’m done here.

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