The dodgy photo quality is because these were taken by mobile phone, lit by my mountain bike headlights. I took them on the way home from work tonight, during which I managed to detour and take in a muddy ridge-ride back to my village.
The pictures show Bond’s Folly (aka Grange Arch), located atop the ridge at 199 metres above sea level and accessed by a long thigh bursting gradient. Although I’ve ridden past it many times, I didn’t realise until just now (thank you Google) that it’s a listed building, and it dates all the way from the early Eighteenth Century. It overlooks the stately home of Creech Grange at the base of the hill, with an avenue having been cleared through the trees to make it visible from below.
I disturbed a herd of deer from their grazing upon my arrival, watched the lighthouse of Portland Bill, and nearly ran over an owl as I left.
All good.
As well as having a very nice pier, Cromer in Norfolk is also famous for the locally caught crab, claimed to be the best in the UK.
It’s a little known fact that one of my sisters is actually a published expert on this topic.
Cromer’s pleasure pier was built in 1901, with a lifeboat station added on the end. It was breached in 1940, lest the Nazis invaded via it. It was then apparently realised that the lifeboat station couldn’t be reached, so it was bridged again! The current huge RNLI shed was built in 1998.
Cromer was originally a mile inland from the Norfolk coast, until erosion provided it with a seafront during the eighteenth century and it became a resort.
With a week of back-to-back strong winds predicted locally, a few of us paddled from Swanage to Kimmeridge in the calm before the storms. The tide races around St Albans Head were running strongly, and I was paddling a less stable kayak than my normal Cetus…so the camera stayed in the bag for most of the trip. The photos here are all of the mellow ‘run-out’ after the tidal sections, along the shallow Kimmeridge Ledges.
A stiff cold wind reminded us of the time of year, but the good news was that we had all twelve miles of the coast to ourselves, only having to share the slate-grey seas and skies with the guillemots. Wild seas, on our doorstep.
Kimmeridge Bay this afternoon, after completing a splendid paddle from Swanage.
Paddling the tidal River Waveney in the Norfolk Broads, you see all sorts of things. But mainly. you see reeds.
I’ve blogged before about the Great Globe overlooking the sea at Durlston Park in Swanage, so there’s no need to repeat explaining its origins and function. I see no harm in plastering more photos of it over the internet, however…
We were out on the Atlantic coast of Lewis on this particular evening, specifically to look for basking sharks. We didn’t find any. It was rubbish.
This fellow was spotted hunting in the brackish stream behind our tent on the beach at Horgabost, late one evening. Isle of Harris, Western Isles.
After Saturday’s race, we headed to Devon and – party animal that I am – I was fast asleep by 9.30 pm. On the Sunday, I forced my aching legs into a creek boat and had a quick blast down the upper Dart River with friends. I then joined Heather and others on the easier part of the river, the classic ‘Loop’ section. I haven’t been on this section for a while; it was great to bob down the simple but engaging rapids whilst chatting with old friends and soaking up the tranquility and scenery of this lovely valley.
A few months back, a few of us entered the Dorset leg of the Endurancelife Coastal Trail Series. The idea of intermittently entering for this sort of masochistic thing every year or two, is that it provides an incentive to get off the sofa and lose a few excess pounds in the training. Unfortunately…circumstances, workload and general laziness meant that I actually didn’t do anything resembling training until under two weeks ago. The few last minute short hill runs I squeezed in, only managed to strain my under-used legs. So…just rocking up yesterday to randomly attempt a 15 mile offroad race with c2300 feet of climb, graded ‘severe’ in trail race parlance…what could go wrong?
Actually it all went surprisingly well. I managed to complete the race and even vaguely enjoyed it. The course was muddy and rather gruelling with some insanely steep hills, but was made very bearable by the surroundings; the route went along the tops of the fabulous cliffs between Weymouth and Lulworth Cove. With the waves crashing into the shore far below and the sea breeze in your lungs, it wasn’t too hard to blot out what your legs were trying to tell you.* I am lucky to live in such an incredible area, the half marathon was a useful reminder of this.
Fellow sufferers Andy, Ian and Alice also survived the experience. Alice entered the ’10k’ race, which amusingly turned out to be over 14km in length. The race organisation was very impressive and professional; I think there might have been as many as a thousand runners in different distance categories.
Photos by Alice, Heather and myself.
*But I’m hearing them now…
The Old Lifeboat House on the shingle spit of Blakeney Point in Norfolk. It belongs to University College London. It was opened as a lifeboat station in 1898, but sold off to the University in 1910, after shifting shingle made its location less than ideal.
Kayakers can land here and explore the surrounding shingles, salt marshes and dunes by path. The information displays and general ambience add up to a somewhat more welcoming experience than that to be found out at the end of Blakeney Point.
The island of Islay is famous for its numerous whisky distilleries, dotted around the coast. We experienced all of these, either by paddling past them, visiting them, launching from them, or – although I’m not much of a drinker – tasting their wares.
Dun Carloway Broch on the island of Lewis, Western Isles of Scotland.
Brochs (possibly from Norse ‘Borg’ = fort) were massive round towers of sophisticated construction, characterised by intramural galleries (rooms and staircases within hollow walls). Brochs originated from the Northern Isles and Caithness, spreading to the Hebrides and mainland Scotland by 200 BC.
Archaeologists originally interpreted brochs as places of refuge from seaborne slave traders. However, close scrutiny reveals that (as with most things Prehistoric) their function is not as clear-cut as first appears. Brochs were unsuitable for serious defence, with easily climbable walls, seemingly no access to the top of the wall for defenders and of course no windows. Some broch locations lack clear surrounding views and conversely, most were too conspicuous for comfort, assuming the aim was to avoid unwanted attention from slavers. Archaeologists are undecided about the purpose of these forbidding towers. They mostly agree that brochs were permanently occupied and possibly acted as ‘status’ manor houses for members of an emerging social elite.
There are two lighthouses at Flamborough Head in Yorkshire. One dates from the nineteenth century, the other from the seventeenth.
Apologies for the cheesy pictures. H and I are just reflecting back on a happy and productive summer holiday in the Hebrides.
All good.
Taken this afternoon, whilst failing to get served at Durlston Castle’s newly opened and (given that the park and castle are public spaces) inappropriately expensive restaurant. They were having teething troubles; like many others we gave up and left, presumably they’ll get more organised in due course. Anyway, the views were wonderful, including across to the Wight hills where I rode yesterday.
Here’s an account of my crossing to the island of Islay this summer, which was previously posted and discussed on UKRGB.
Several ways to end your days – an ill advised open crossing
Just thought I’d relate an interesting experience I had earlier in the summer – my crossing from the mainland to the island of Islay. Although this should have been straightforward, it proved to be my toughest ever crossing physically and more pertinently, most dangerous. I’ll summarise what happened and allow folk to draw their own conclusions as to why it was such a poor showing on my behalf.
The distance was about 14 miles (I think I did 16+ in the end), which I personally saw as no issue – I have done many much longer crossings, sometimes involving strong tides, which were not present here. However, I’d only been in a boat a handful of times in the previous month and certainly not paddled any distance.
My wife was taking the ferry across but dropped me off at my launch point, the Gigha ferry, patiently allowed me to get sorted, then left to catch the boat with little time spare. I did give Mrs R clear info on where I intended to land and when, and at what point I should be considered ‘overdue’ and the CG contacted.
I would be paddling W mostly. Forecast was NW 3-4, but there were only light breezes and ripples on the sea. As soon as Mrs R left, the wind increased notably – blowing from the NW. I considered calling her back, but this would have meant her/ us missing the ferry which had been booked months before.
I launched and paddled the first leg, 4 miles to the south end of Gigha island. The wind kept increasing and slowed me down, it was probably 5 by the time I reached the south point. I have no idea whether it got any stronger than this, but it was enough already to cause me big problems.
I was now looking at more than ten miles of open water with a much bigger fetch – steep close-spaced waves were breaking against the exposed side of Gigha. I have no doubt that at this point I would normally have turned back to the mainland, but of course I was ‘committed’ to my crossing in certain senses; e.g. I was supposed to be meeting Mrs R on the far side. At this point I also realised that I was not carrying any clothes other than those I was wearing, let alone a sleeping bag or tent. So plan #B – hop ashore onto Gigha and try again in the morning – was not an option. I also considered going ashore on Gigha and finding a BnB. But I wasn’t even carrying my wallet.
I made the decision to ‘dip my toe’ – paddle half an hour out from Gigha and see how it went, with the option of turning around and begging a bed on Gigha. However (and I have no idea why), I’m pretty sure that once I had turned my back on Gigha, I never for a moment gave turning around even a moment’s thought.
In the first half mile, several waves broke clean over me, somewhat disconcerting. However, things calmed down as I got into deeper water and I settled into a rhythm. I could not paddle on the intended bearing, it was simply too close to the wind and thus too wet – it meant hitting the windblown waves from the NW repeatedly and making no progress. I aimed further south, but still pointing at Islay.
After an hour, I checked the GPS – I normally hate using this gadget for navigation, but on this occasion I wanted to be sure. I had progressed 1.7 miles, paddling flat out with no breaks, and I was already exhausted. My normal relaxed cruising speed is 4 mph.
That’s it, really. I thrashed on, making slow progress and seriously worried about how long I’d be able to maintain the effort needed to keep making progress. I got pretty cold (suppose another thermal might have been a good idea under the cag) but did not break full-effort paddling for more than a quick mouthful of chocolate at any point. I looked up at one point and saw the ferry some miles to the north of me, and felt quite jealous of all onboard (Mrs R tells me it was a really smooth crossing and the sea looked quite pleasant from the decks!). Other than that it was all head-down paddling, non-stop, and I really wasn’t fit for this.
About 4 miles out from the coast of Islay, I was able to reassure myself that I was going to live through this. I am fully aware of how hyperbolic/ ridiculous that sounds, but it’s exactly what I told myself then, and for a couple of hours beforehand, I was really not sure how things were going to pan out. I was happier now because the swell had receded as I closed the fetch distance between land and myself, and the paddling was much easier/ smoother/ quicker. I was now able to turn more into the wind and regain some of the ground I’d lost off course.
A mile out from Islay, the sea was smooth, the sun was shining and seals came to see me from the reefs. Seeing this gorgeous evening, it was hard to believe what I’d just been out in. I had a relaxed chat with Mrs R on the VHF (just on the cusp of my ‘overdue’ cut-off time), then paddled in and joined her, wobbling quite a bit as I climbed out. I think I’d been paddling for over five hours.
Good news was, the curry house in Port Ellen was still open.
Today I needed to get out and clear my head from a tough week, but the weather wasn’t playing ball – too windy for sea kayaking, too dry for white water.
A decent Plan #B was needed. The Isle of Wight never disappoints, so I hopped onto a train and then a ferry, to do something I’ve meant to for a long time; mountain bike the Tennyson Trail. This long bridleway snakes across the south of The Island, perched atop some glorious chalk ridgeway, 600-700 feet above the English Channel. It’s so-named for the Victorian Poet Laureate who lived at Freshwater Bay (above) for four decades, regularly walking on the ridge for inspiration.
With the wind in your hair, the sea far beneath you, and your saddle repeatedly being rammed into your backside, all the cares in the world disappear.
All good.
Taken near Valtos, Isle of Lewis, Western Isles.
