South West Sea Kayaking

Just returned from a wonderful Bank Holiday weekend, over the border in south Pembrokeshire. More photos and a full report to follow soon …

Last year, we held a ‘book launch weekend’ to celebrate the arrival of ‘South West Sea Kayaking’. The weekend was  based at East Prawle in south Devon, and was a lot of fun. So, let’s do it again. Purely for want of a name, I’m calling it the South West Sea Kayak Meet, but we went through a fair few possibilities (‘South West is Best’ and ‘The Unsymposium’ were strong contenders) and hey, I may change the name again next week.

So … I’m going to dripfeed information about the weekend bit by bit, but here’s a general outline …

- The weekend is free (apart from camping). Nobody will make any money from it (I can think of one person who’ll lose money on it) but we will raise some dosh for the RNLI and the Devon Air Ambulance.

- It’s an informal get-together of friends and soon-to-be friends. I’ll do my best to make it run smoothly (generously aided by volunteers) but don’t expect a tightly choreographed Bejing-Olympics-Opening-Ceremony-type-spectacle.

- The weekend is aimed at folk who just want to go paddling and enjoy the wonderful south Devon coast. All abilities are welcome, but the paddling will not suit complete novices.

- On Saturday night, there will be an evening of talks in the wonderful Pig’s Nose Inn. The guest speakers have been invited purely because they’re entertaining and visually appealing; no PowerPoint lectures from Highly Respected Coaches, I’m afraid.

- PH Kayaks and Venture Kayaks are kindly supporting the weekend and will be offering demo kayaks for use on the water.

- There will be a range of paddling trips on the Saturday and Sunday; there will be a choice of doing your own thing, or joining small guided groups, led by experienced volunteers.

- There will be camping available at Higher Farm, just along the road from the pub. Bring your own food or eat at the ppub/cafe

If you are planning on coming, please let me know as soon as possible. I particularly need to get an idea of … how many of you in your party, how many tents you are likely to use (little tents? family tents?), and whether you will attend the talks on Saturday night. I hope to make the event open to all, but as we only have half a farm field to play with and one pub hall, I may have to do some ‘rationalising’ if numbers grow beyond a certain point! Please email your plans … mark@ukriversguidebook.co.uk.

As noted, I will supply more information bit by bit. Watch this space in the weeks to come!

Cheers,

Mark R

The photo above shows the ineffable Vernal Falls, in California’s Yosemite National Park. ‘Vernal’ means, ’springlike’ (so the internet tells me, anyway) and I suspect that this is a reference to the constantly watered greenery in the gorge around the fall. Whilst taking that picture I was effectively enshrouded in an enormous lingering wet cloud that soaked me to the skin; on such a fine day, I hadn’t thought I’d need my waterproofs!

We had a really enjoyable trip out west, retreading some rivers from my 2002 trip to Cali, and finding a few new ones to enjoy out in the wilds. There are 1001 photos and reports here; read the scary Burnt Ranch Falls stories if you want a bit of vicarious adrenaline (also have a read of Simon Knox’s version of the same).

Hmm, does writing about white water kayaking in California USA have any place in a blog about sea kayaking in south west England? I suppose that you have the tenuous links of ‘kayaking’ and ’south west’ … but to justify this post, here are a few meagre snippets of south west news/info …

- There is a bit of an issue right now with access to Long Island in Poole Harbour, see here.

- Someone got themselves into a spot of bother in South Devon this week … here.

- I am currently working on planning an informal sea kayak get-together in South Devon (June 13th/14th), not unlike that which we held last year to celebrate the launch of my book. Watch this space for more info.

- Most importantly of all, as of yesterday my PH Cetus is finally back in Dorset! Many thanks to various folk who have helped it make its way back from the far north of Scotland, most recently Tim Lambert at PH Kayaks and Bournemouth Canoes. Wonderful, I will be out on the water this weekend to celebrate its return.

Mrs R doing her thing in California …

Claire CL and Liz G, a couple more off-duty sea kayakers whom you may recognise from this blog …

A couple of hazardous locals …

The above photo is one of my favourites. I like it because of the warm fuzzy memories that it triggers; it shows Heather (Mrs R) and Claire Cheong-Leen at Land’s End in Cornwall, framed by the monumental arch of Enys Dodman, a vast stack that has separated from the mainland. It was a magical evening, and we stayed until the sun melted into the western horizon.

The photo has been just been used as the cover shot for Canoe Kayak UK magazine’s special supplement on sea kayaking published this month and included alongside the normal magazine. The supplement features an article on planning multiday trips written by myself, as well as a feature on sea kayak photography by Douglas Wilcox and something on clothing by Jeff Allen.

Right this moment, Heather and I have just escaped work, finished packing for California and we’re off to the airport in a few hours; this won’t be a long nights’ sleep! We’re lucky enough to be enjoying a couple of weeks of paddling the glorious wilderness rivers of the Sierra Nevada with the same great bunch of friends who joined us in India last Easter. The photo below was taken last time I paddled in California, in 2002.

Have a good Easter, all.

I’m very sorry for the title of this post. I tried so hard to resist, I honestly did.

Glorious sunny weekend here in Dorset. I was out on the water on both days, and took the opportunity to try out a ridiculously long lens that I bankrupted myself buying a little while back; the  lens was heavy enough to induce involuntary capsizing if used unaided, as Graham Bland’s picture above illustrates.

I haven’t quite figured out how to get the best out of the lens yet (shutter speeds used were too bloody slow) but I did enjoy the luscious green sheen to this chappie …

Not too far away on the Isle of Purbeck, Isle of Portland Canoe Club did their good deed for the weekend …

All the photos in this post but the last were all taken aroundabouts John O’Groats, Scotland’s NE extremity. It’s where I ended up at the end of last summer’s holiday. I was thinking about this today because my kayak has only just made it back to England, and should be reunited with me soonish. Huge thanks to Cailean Macleod, Richard Cree and Tim Lambert, all of whom have generously stored it and helped it along its way south.

Anyway, I was wondering what comes next. I have the summer clear again for 2009; I’m not available for the right dates during the big WW trip I wanted to join in Quebec, and I’ve decided not to join some chums on a WW trip to India’s wonderful Zanskar River gorges, having paddled these a couple of times already. My annual overseas WW fix will instead be a trip to California in a few weeks.

Long ago, I set myself the target of getting all the way around Britain before I turned 40. This horrible event occurs in May 2010, so basically I only have this summer to finish my round-Britain paddle. I reckon that I could do it too – 800 miles left, which is entirely reasonable in one 6 week school holiday (assuming better weather than the horror that was last summer, anyway).

I probably won’t, though – since hanging around at John O’Groats last August (during yet another bad weather delay) looking north across the Pentland Firth, I’ve become addicted to the idea of paddling up through the Orkney and Shetland islands to the very top of Britain at Muckle Flugga. I’ll get around Britain eventually, but I’ll just put off being 40 for a year or so.

A more immediate challenge is to convince my wife to join me this summer, squeezing the trip into her already crammed schedule … the final photo shows her rolling upright on Devon’s River Dart today.

This morning, we were rather surprised to see the above sight out of the bedroom window; I suppose that we should have listened to the forecast, really. The snow melted quickly across the region, however Dorset’s Isle of Purbeck seems to have possessed some form of microclimate as the snow kept on falling hereabouts.

Being subject to a mild Atlantic climate, snow is usually a rare and short-lived thing here on the English Channel. We haven’t seen anything like this much of the white stuff since we moved to the coast in 1994, so we were rather excited! As the sun sank into the west, we dashed up Swyre Head to catch a glimpse of the snow meeting the ocean.

And no, at no point did we even consider going paddling … too cold for wimps like us!

This photo was taken underground in one of the numerous bunkers on the isle of Flat Holm. The lighthouse guides shipping negotiating the turbulent waters of the Bristol Channel.  

In the middle of the picture is my good friend Dr Liz, who has just cornered the market in blogs devoted to explaining geology from the perspective of a kayak. Her blog is here, enjoy!

Note: Dog lovers are best advised to skip this post…

I’ve just returned from a very enjoyable and very exhausting  jaunt around the Isle of Wight, 85 miles in just over 60 hours. I had a few days spare (school half term, and no water in the rivers) and the forecast looked good. My boat is out of town, but I hopped into a Capella 167 that I have on loan from PH Kayaks and will give back soon, honest!

Overall, a very interesting trip; the sun shone a fair bit and it never quite got cold enough to wear my pogies, the seas were largely empty (even the Solent!), the most challenging bits (and then some!) were the open crossings to and from the Island, and the lack of strong tides (it’s neaps) meant that I had to work quite hard … frankly, I need the exercise so this wasn’t a bad thing.

Wednesday night – I launched from Swanage at 8.30 pm to cross to the Needles. I’ve done this 18 mile open crossing by night before, but this was very different. For starters, the tide was against me for several hours (duh) so it took a full five hours. Secondly, it was dark. Really dark. So dark in the last three hours, that I couldn’t see my boat in front of me, let alone anything else. The air was dense with damp mist, so if I turned my head torch on, I could only see dancing drips of moisture before my face and immediately felt nauseous. With the light off I felt pretty weird too, often hallucinating that my boat was sliding sideways or floating on air. There was no sign of any shore lights and I couldn’t tell sea from sky; no horizon (or anything) to orientate myself by, other than a very very faint smudge of light that I (thankfully correctly) assumed to be the Needles Lighthouse and paddled towards.

When I reached the lighthouse (I heard the foghorn from a couple of miles off), it was an astounding sight; the different coloured segments lit up the fog like something out of the movie Close Encounters. I told Solent Coastguard on my VHF that I’d arrived, but they insisted that I called them again when I was ashore; easier said than done as it took me quite a while to find the beach!

I crashed out at 2.30 am and had a really lousy night of sleep; the foghorn going off a mile away didn’t help, nor did the waves breaking a few metres away on the beach; you can feel pebble beaches moving beneath you when this happens.

Thursday – The sea was like a millpond. I had an uneventful slog up the Solent along the full length of the island and landed just around the corner from Bembridge, six hours later. I cheekily camped in the garden of someone’s beach hut and slept in a remarkably wet tent as the rain drummed down.

Friday – the tides meant that I had to launch at 8 am, oh joy. On the bright side, I witnessed a spectacular sunrise over the ranks of massive ships anchored to the east of Wight (awaiting their turn to dock at Southampton, presumably). Somehow I got to St Catherine’s Point lighthouse in under 2.5 hours, although the usually impressive tide race was non-existent at neap tides. The SE coast of the island was a bit more of a slog with slacker tides, and I landed at Freshwater Bay after 5.5 hours on the water.

I had planned to rest before continuing past the Needles to Alum Bay, but peculiar things then happened.

A family approached me and asked if I’d go rescue their spaniel which had apparently fallen off the cliffs to the west of the bay. The woman handed me a leash and said, “Call him, he’ll swim out to you.” I looked dubiously at the surf breaking over the rocks and rather assumed that their dog was very dead, or at least dead enough not to warrant me risking my neck. Plus, I’m a cat person. But their young daughter was in tears, so I manfully agreed to see what I could do.

I paddled along the cliffs and was surprised to discover Fido (or whatever the bloody stupid mutt was called) alive and well in the next small cove, hemmed in by cliffs. There was 30 metres of rocky surf between me and the beach, and of course he declined the offer I made to swim out to me. Hence, I made a slightly crunchy surf landing in the bay (um, I hope PH Kayaks aren’t reading) and grabbed Fido and put him on his leash. Next challenge was how to get out through the surf with said mutt. I decided to chance it without my spraydeck and with Fido sitting on my lap in the cockpit. He wasn’t convinced at all, and it took several attempts to stuff his hairy backside down in my lap whilst the shorebreak washed me all over the place. Finally we were off and moving, approaching the surf. I took a good run-up at the biggest breaking wave (just over head height) and hit it perfectly. However, the stupid blasted hound chose this moment to abandon ship, leaping clear as the wave broke over us. This wouldn’t have been a problem, except that I had his leash around my wrist …

I rolled back up (my first ever sea kayak roll in anger) and swore profusely at my canine albatross. For the rest of the paddle out back through the surf, I simply dragged Fido along in the water by his leash, coming with me whether he liked it or not. Eventually he got the idea that it was either hop on board or drown/choke in my wake, and he clambered onto the deck dejectedly. He wouldn’t deign to get his paws wet in my now-swamped cockpit however, and insisted on perching across with a pair of paws on each side of the cockpit rim. This was the least convenient position to allow me to paddle the boat (or indeed see where I was going), but somehow I managed to paddle well enough to return Fido’s shivering remains to his family. It’s probably a good thing that this all happened out of their view in the next cove, or they would have called the RSPCA.

That was me for the day (I was as cold and wet as the ungrateful mutt) so I camped at Freshwater.

Saturday – that was this morning, and it was another 8 am launch. There was a surprising amount of surf dumping on the beach at Freshwater Bay, so I had to wait 10 minutes until I found a lull in which to launch. Having launched I realised that I’d jammed my skeg with pebbles (dammit!) but decided not to land and repeat the whole palaver. The sea was lively and there was a pretty fresh W/NW wind so (as suspected) I had to abandon any hope of making the 20+ mile crossing back to Swanage. I called my wife and arranged to meet her instead on the mainland at Mudeford, a 12 mile paddle, 8 miles across open water from the Needles.

The tide quickly got me to the Needles, and I gave these rocks a pretty wide berth – waves were breaking hard between the chalk stacks! The next puzzle was how to turn NW towards Mudeford, as various unpleasant things were going on in my path; the sea was breaking over the wide area of shallows nearby, plus there were a few lively tide races kicked up by the wind against tide. After five minutes of deliberation (in which the option of bailing was strongly considered), I decided to head about 2 miles further west offshore of the Needles to clear the worst of the mush before turning north to begin my crossing. This worked pretty well, the only problem then was to thrash into the headwind all the way to the beach. I arrived late and utterly exhausted; to add insult to injury, My wife pointed at the blue skies and mirror-smooth sea beside the beach (the wind was offshore of course …) and enquired why I was so late and so worn out!

Oh well, that was it for my trip. This paddle was brought to you in association with Gala Apples and Nurofen.

We paddled the splendid East Lyn River in north Devon this weekend, trying not to notice the bitterly cold wind blowing off the Bristol Channel and up the gorge. I was a happy man as it was the first time I’ve been in a boat since breaking a rib a month ago.

The East Lyn drains high Exmoor and falls steeply down to the sea at Lynmouth, amongst some wonderful coast. Whilst the East Lyn certainly deserves the title ‘Valley of the Rocks’, this name actually belongs to a bizarre dry valley perched above the sea nearby. Many geologists suspect that the East Lyn used to flow down this valley amongst the granite tors that characterise it.

We arrived after sunset and enjoyed the last light of the day there, communing with goats. There’s not much to do in Devon.

The Valley of the Rocks seen from the sea, 2007.

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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This little boy is paddling on the River Wye at Symond’s Yat East, perhaps over 30 years ago. It’s his first ever time in a canoe. The canoe belongs to his dad, who later in the holiday will terrify the entire family by making a reckless impromptu descent of the rapids located just downstream.

The little boy enjoyed his paddle up and down alongside the bank.

A few of my photos (which didn’t make the grade for the book!) have been used in P&H Kayaks’ new catalogue.

Above is North Cleave Gut, a rather splendid chasm on the Exmoor coast of north Devon.

The second photo used shows Heather entering the rather wonderful fishing village of Polperro in south Cornwall.

 The third photo used is of my friend Liz paddling along the unique north coast of Steep Holm island; the amazing tidal range of the Bristol Channel can clearly be seen etched into the cliffs, as can the thousands of pairs of black backed gulls who dominate the island.

I am reduced to living vicariously through past photos right now, as I can’t go out paddling. I broke a rib or two during a tussle with a tree whilst paddling in Portugal over New Year. It’s rather painful (especially when I laugh, cough, walk, talk or breathe) but the good news is that Portugal was a rather wonderful place! Just to give you the flavour of this remarkable country, a few photos to follow …

A guest blog post from Mrs R …

Sea-kayaking a bit further south-west, and creating a sea kayaker!

This summer, Alice needed a cheap holiday somewhere nice. I had a spare week in my summer schedule and suggested a trip to Brittany as an option. Lisa was able to come too. A sea kayaking trip seemed like a good idea, except for the minor difficulty of Lisa not having a sea kayak. Luckily for us, we were able to borrow a demo boat from P&H; one of their composite Capellas, which is part of a line being made in Poland as an ‘off the shelf’ option.

The scene was set for the indoctrination of another WW paddler into the fine art of the Sea Kayak. The obligatory facial hair was provided by seaweed …

Venues: Port Blanc, Ile De Brehat, Trebeurden and Ile Grande; all on the Granite Rose Coast of Brittany.

Tidal range: Big!

Conditions: overcast with moderate winds and some ground swell.

Scenery: amazing natural granite sculptures and pink sandy beaches.

Company: top notch.

To my shame I still haven’t been near a sea kayak in the past month! Hopefully I will escape to the sea in a couple of weeks when the school term ends.

We haven’t been wasting our time, however; we’ve been planning the work and travel that we’ll need to do in 2009 for Savage Shores. The photo above was taken tonight on a new 600mm zoom lens I’ve acquired expressly for the purpose of photographing wildlife (seals, sea birds etc) for that book. Now I just need me something to point it at that’s alive and closer than 250000 miles away!

Other news … South West Sea Kayaking is selling well for Christmas, many thanks indeed to all who’ve shelled out for a copy! It’s now possible to get a detailed preview of the book, courtesy of Google. Also in print this month is an article I wrote about my big summer trip, where I’ve tried to convey some of the very real highs and lows of a long solo paddle. The article is published in the January issue of Canoe Kayak UK. I hope that it’s an enjoyable read.

This last weekend was the annual Adventure Paddler Weekend (APWE) down in Dartmoor. It’s a get-together of expedition whitewater paddlers with talks in the evening. This was the first year in a while that myself or one of my mates wasn’t doing a talk, so we were able to focus on the beer, with devastating and inadvisable results. The final photo of those below shows Heather looking rather pleased with herself. Not only had she completed her first ever running race that morning (the heinous looking Grim8 near Aldershot), somehow she arrived at the APWE and won the raffle for the expensive new helmet that she’s wearing.