Friends, Canoeing, Leaving London

It’s always weird and wonderful to see close friends from home on the other side of the world and I was excited to welcome the Batts at Heathrow last week. A brief overlap while they begin preparing for London life, they've already shot through to France, but we'll be meeting up again in May to cycle the Rhine.

The Batts and Ben

Enough of them. As I mentioned in my last blog, I found myself accidentally signed up for a canoe trip down the Wye River. Just my sort of thing! The Wye is Britain’s 5^th longest river and flows through Herefordshire, near Wales, out to Bristol. The trip was organised by Belinda, an explorer extraordinaire who started www.explorersconnect.co.uk – Check it out. Very exciting browsing.

We met up late on a Friday at Ye Olde Ferrie Inn, established 1473, which was to be our base for the weekend. It was great after a long day working and driving to settle into a warm seat by the fire and fill up on food and ale, swapping stories with strangers and getting to know my companions for the weekend. It struck me that over the centuries, the inn’s old walls must have heard far better stories, stretching back to early versions of English I wouldn’t be able to understand. Probably seen a good deal of bloodshed and vicious brawls from the once-upon-a-times; it was a building crawling with secret memories.

Ye Olde Ferrie Inn, est. 1473

View outside the inn

Next morning, already mostly dehydrated, our group of 15 were driven up river to a canoe rental company which fixed us up with the necessary gear, maps and instructions on how to avoid capsizing, drowning, hypothermia, and all that safety garbage that spoils your pre-trip buzz. After convincing us all that it wasn’t as safe as it seemed and promising that the then good weather would turn and attack us, they left us to it and off we went.

Gearing up

The Wye is very old. I guess most rivers are, but in terms of human history and Britain’s story, this is a very old and important river. As we meandered through the first stages, passing picturesque stone cottages, timeless farmhouses and sheep growing fat on rich green grass, I imagined that little must have changed here in the last couple of hundred years. It was all very serene, but our pleasant sunshine eventually began to fade and clouds moved over to send rain striking down on us and a headwind to drive the needle-like, cold drops into our eyes. Our progress was severely slowed as the surface of the water was driven back upriver in waves and we dug deep in some misguided but determined attempt to paddle ourselves out of the storm. Conversation being difficult, I withdrew inside my rain jacket to a world of damp and paddling and sent my imagination on a journey back in time.

I went back a few hundred years to rid cars and modern roads and even trains from the world, back to a time when the Wye was the equivalent of the M5 Motorway, being an arterial route into a fertile farming region that could take goods to Bristol and then on to sea, bringing riches both ways as England set out to make its mark on the world.

I went back further to a Britain constantly divided by war, seeing a castle on the bank that was erected along with several others in order to keep the Welsh penned in, hosting a sullen garrison of knights, men-at-arms, archers and all the tailings of a small army, on hand to do violence should the occasion call for it.

I went back again until I was at the steering oar of a Viking warship, greedily eyeing up the livestock on either side of the bank and giddy with the prospect of getting away with a sudden, ruthless raid to carry women, animals, slaves and whatever other food or valuables I could find back to a safe haven. Always watching for a sign of danger or organised resistance, but equipped with a more than dangerous crew myself and eager for a good fight.

I went back again to a land of confusion; oppressed, lice-ridden tribes searching the land in frightened awe, unsure how their powerful masters since time beyond remembering could so abruptly up and vanish, leaving so much wealth behind them and technology beyond understanding. Unsure of even the extent of their island, the future was anything but certain and English wasn’t even a language.

I went back once more until I was a slave in the oar bank of yet another ship, a Roman galley, listening to a hierarchy of officers arguing with their cartographer over new place names as the world’s greatest empire marched on tirelessly, claiming yet another land which they would go on to rule for over 400 years. It all would have happened along this river.

The weather had slowly improved through this time, but my reverie was brought to an abrupt end as hail materialised above us and forced us to tie up on the bank in a hurry and dash, freezing and soaking, into a waiting pub. So suddenly did the hail come and go, that I started to wonder if the proprietor of the pub had perhaps seen us coming and pushed “the button”, triggering some overpowered snow machine to send us running into his open arms, just like all the others, eager to throw our money at him in exchange for warm comforts. By which I mean food.

There isn’t a whole lot more to tell about it. There’s just something about an activity like that where hours can flow on like the river and you really just don’t mind as you paddle, chatter and muse; vaguely connected to that sense again that life is a journey, always moving, but not really thinking too hard about anything because the demands of the working world can’t join you here; there’s no pressure. A warm pub is waiting further down the river but will it be two hours, or four until you make it there? Do you care? Not really. You can do little to change that so you just paddle on, keep the boat straight and time takes care of the rest.

Front seat view

Ghost bridge

Castle for keeping the Welsh from getting out

I'm taking a piss with the other hand here

Just waiting around

Passing lollies around

Nice to return to a warm inn

After the second day on the river I knew it was time to get moving again. My own journey had ground to somewhat of a halt in London. It was time to cast off and see what would come next. I’d been trying to map out April with plans ranging from cycling to motorcycling, maybe Scotland, Ireland or France, and I just couldn’t find peace with any plan that I came up with. Then someone told me to go to Spain… And a plan quickly fell into place.

I won’t go into too much detail, you can read about it later, but the short version is that a train, 3 ferries and a whole lot of cycling will see me spending a week each in Cornwall (UK), part of the Camino Way (North coast of Spain), Biarritz (South-west France), and riding along the North-east coast of France from near Calais to Amsterdam. A somewhat disjointed journey, as I’m prioritising friends and have to get to Amsterdam by May, but a fine way to spend the Spring.

My bike feels like it weighs a ton and I’m sure I’ll start throwing perfectly good clothes away before the week is out. After zipping around London as a commuter I’d forgotten what so much extra weight felt like. I’m less concerned about my legs tiring (obviously) and more concerned about hitting a bump somewhere nowhereish and having a wheel buckle and throw me. Still, fear is no reason not to act. I’ll take my chances and keep you posted from the road.

Nek minute... Brighton, Olney, Where wine leads me

Somewhat of a time gap to catch up on here. You didn't miss too much, but it's still ended up rather long. So this is more of a 'sit down with a hot drink at the computer' type of update than a 'quick browse through for pictures on your mobile while you sit on the toilet' type of thing. Unless you are constipated. I apologise to the younger generation. And also to those who wrestle with constipation.

I'll get the embarrassing bit out of the way first. While at work, I found myself in charge of directing someone's stupidly large, wanting-to-fall-apart wardrobe up and around narrow stairs, over banisters, just anything to make life more difficult for me. We had 3 of us lifting, grunting, sweating and trying not to gouge the walls and I had us set it down near a difficult doorway so we could reassess the situation. Being both larger and wider than me, I couldn't see around the wardrobe. The obvious solution seemed to be to grip the top of the wardrobe, propel myself upwards and suspend myself in a meerkat type posture, from where I'd be able to see down either side of the wardrobe and plan the next move.

As a young man in my prime and stronger than average, launching myself upwards with the assistance of both my arms and legs is wonderfully easy. Already warm from the lifting, I bounced up merrily, reveling in my strength and grace. Unfortunately, I failed to notice that although there was plenty of head room on top of the dresser, I myself was standing square in the middle of a door frame.

You know that really strong part of the house? That you're told to hide under in an earthquake? I hit that full force, taking the impact straight on top of my skull with my rudely halted momentum being sent back down into my rapidly compressing neck. The "thud" was loud enough to make those in the room and possibly the roof of the house jump half a foot. Only I was privy to the sickening sound of something spinal crunching, much like cracking all of your knuckles at once but louder and coming from my neck.

I landed on my feet, perhaps 2 inches shorter and struggled to appreciate how I'd managed such an idiotic move. Part of me wanted to laugh at myself, but I had to strictly forbid any action that might move my neck. Plenty of pain and reasons to worry, but I could wiggle my toes and so removed myself from the lifting and let things cool down, knowing that until the adrenaline wore off and the pain increased I wouldn't know just how bad the damage was.

Throughout life, I've always found myself physically calm and controlled in high pressure or dangerous situations. My mind speeds up and I can clearly make good decisions without costly hesitation. So there wasn't any unhelpful physical panic at this moment, I slowed my breathing to let the adrenaline ease, but the depths of mental terror I was going through was just awful. I was on the other side of the world, on a tight budget, lifting furniture for a living to bide time until I began several months of bicycle touring, hoping to end by joining a course to train as a wilderness guide. And I had just compromised all of that by the rough equivalent of diving headfirst into a tree. No serious damage was yet confirmed but nor could it be ruled out. I couldn't or wouldn't turn my neck as the pain was still increasing frighteningly. I realised that I really needed my neck. Would it prove a non-paralyzing fracture? Would I be stuck in a neck brace? Months of rehab? Would I have to be medivac'd home? Would I be hit with medical costs? Would I be able to ride my bike home? Who would shift the dresser out of the hallway?

The client was acting in more panic that I, fretting and apologising for owning such an awfully large dresser that her husband had told her to throw out, but she'd insisted on having us drag up here. With most of her belongings still packed away, she became intent on offering me a glass of water. I don't know why she thought that would help, but as she fretted she must have offered me a glass of water about 10 times in under 2 minutes while I tried to insist that I really couldn't risk turning my neck to drink it right now. For that reason I also did not scream at her, "A glass of bloody water?! Are you serious?! Just give it a kiss and put a plaster on it, woman! I'm sure that'll do the trick!"

I did what my dad would have done and carried on working, excusing myself from lifting and directing with my voice and knot tying expertise. I visited the hospital the next day, having had precious little sleep in my pain, but they figured if I'd made it that far I must be alright, why scan it? I was told to take time off work, which were the best pain killers to take and where to buy a really good mattress and pillow. Suffice to say I did none of those things and am mending, but it's slow. Almost 20 days now and I haven't slept more than 4 hours unbroken as being horizontal aggravates it and unless I'm very tired, the pain/discomfort will wake me and I have to grumble through several hours of waking to turn myself and saying ouch a lot. Still... Things could have been much worse and have been for another friend of mine with a neck injury recently. My plans are not unhinged. I'd say I was lucky.

Look before you leap guys. Seriously.

Taken by the client, an hour after impact. Why aren't I looking up? I can't. I'm in a lot of pain.

That has slowed me down and left me stuck at home more than I'd like, recovering between work days, but I've still managed to get out of London a few times to some really beautiful places.

On a whim, I took a train to Brighton where Frances Levy, good girl that she is, took me in on short notice and gave me a tour of Brighton, drinks by the sea, dinner at the awesomely named "Yum Yum Ninja" and a welcome breath of fresh, sea air, which I've really missed while living in the city.

Brighton is a beautiful town. It's full of artsy clothes shops, secondhand everything, great cafes, those incense smelling vegan food type joints, people smoking joints, specialist tea stores, tattoo parlours, buskers, and just a general liberal vibe. Not surprisingly, it's the gay capital of England. It's just really chilled out and a far cry from the busy streets of London.

Brighton Pier. But that's obvious, isn't it.

Frances. Good girl that she is.

Not a skyline that you'd expect in England.

The sun pissed off to visit America. #NOideawhataFILTERis

The Royal Pavilion, Brighton.

What's an Indian palace doing on England's south coast, you ask? Apparently construction began in 1787 for George, Prince of Wales, who later became the Prince Regent. LATER became NOT EVEN A KING! But this was his coastal, summer residence. His batch, if you will. England was getting just incalculably rich off the back off India at the time. It's changed hands a few times since, with various additions being, well, added.

Another place I was fortunate to visit was Olney. Jan Oates, mother of my former-colleague-turned-friend Kate, was kind enough to put me up for a few days where I enjoyed home-cooked meals that I didn't have to make myself, rich conversation and jaunts around the village and countryside.

Olney is famous for three things. Lace, the Newton and Cowper Museum and the annual Pancake Race. Can't say I'm much interested in lace.

John Newton, former slave-trader turned church-boss (I forget the title) is most famed for writing Amazing Grace. He was a pastor (church-boss) for 17 years in Olney before taking on a larger role in London where he was big into the anti-slavery movement. I don't do that justice, but he became a good man and put it most humbly himself in these words, "

Oh there you go. He was a Rev. He was good friends with William Cowper. The museum staff were not pleased with my ignorance on this one. Cowper was famed far wandering the town in an absurdly hideous nightcap, keeping almost a zoo of pets, largely Hares, having an ongoing battle with depression, co-writing the Olney Hymns - several hundred - with John Newton, writing wonderful letters to his friends and being the father of modern English poetry. And you pronounce it "Cooper", not "Cow-per", which the man himself pointed out regularly in his letters. You may not have heard of him either, but perhaps you've heard that, "Variety's the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavour." And I love this line, "God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea an rides upon the storm."

I got to go through Cowper's stuff in his bedroom while a mannequin pretended to be him.

But what's a pancake race? Because that's the bit you're really interested in. Well the old story goes that once upon a time in Olney, a woman was in a panic at home, trying to get her pancakes cooked - as all good women should be inclined to do. But then the church bells rang! Summoning her to an important mass or some such. Reluctant to miss mass, but also unwillingly to let a good pancake go to waste, she ran all the way from her home to the church with the hot pan in one hand, skirt and apron scrunched up in the other and arrived with with a steaming hot, fresh pancake, much to everyone's amusement. ("What ho! This is most irregular!")

She never quite lived that one down. This is meant to have happened in 1445. And every year the ladies of the town compete in this famous running race, pan and cake in one hand, dashing through the town. Although, I've heard much complaint from locals that it used to be old girls doing their one run of the year for a laugh, but as prizes increased and charities became involved the event has now been hyped up and over commercialised, with some quite serious athletes training for the event and quite frankly, spoiling it. C'mon, athletes... Seriously?

Olney. A pretty place to rear sheep.

Occasionally the lakes like to show off. No, like all the time. Arrogant lakes.

And in soon to be news, I'm about to head on an exciting canoe trip this weekend. I received a confusing email a couple of weeks back from Belinda at "Explorers Connect" (see www.explorersconnect.com). It said that I hadn't yet paid my deposit, and the full amount was now due to secure my place, blah blah blah, canoe trip down the Wye River. Clueless as to why I was receiving this, but familiar with the organisation, I had to dig 6 weeks back in my memory and email history to a night I spent alone, but for 2 bottles of red wine and my laptop, drunkenly browsing the internet. It seems that, eager for adventure, I signed up for a weekend excursion paddling down the Wye River in open topped canoes. I must say, I was highly impressed with Drunk Scott. Other people write off their cars or insult their friends. I set adventures in motion. So that's where I'll spend the next couple of days, out in Herefordshire, getting damp.

I'll finish with a poem. I wouldn't usually be so vulnerable on a blog but am fairly certain most won't read this far. It came while I was sitting in Cowper's garden, the museum being his former residence and the garden where he spent much of his time between composing great literary works but also struggling with classic artists' depression. From reading extracts of his letters and poems throughout the museum I had started to feel a strong connection to the man, like I could read between the lines of his writing and see much of myself, my own way of looking at the world, that which I treasured and that which I feared. I pictured his ghost walking the yard and tried to see it how he would have, as much would not have changed since he walked there, stone path and walls static through time. This is what found its way into my journal.

Cowper's Garden

Here I sit in Cowper's garden

By myself yet not alone

Words of his still paint the yard and

Ghostly feet still tread the stone

Here I still see vividly

His battles fought with crushing dread

The peace of plants and wind his armour

While inside his spirit bled

For a mind so complicated

Digging deep 'til trapped in hell

Simple things in all their wonder

Held him steady for a spell

Birds content to sit and chatter

Unaware of start or end

Lend a moments peace from thoughts

With which one can't always contend

Here the seasons come and go

Do they know or understand?

Yet this won't affect their nature

What must come will come again

What of thee, ye mortal man?

Who dreams of glory ever-last?

Yet when thinks of time unending

Knows a fear that's unsurpassed

Will thy petty fretting

Be a shield for what's to come?

Nature will as nature must

For all that's said and done

Yet we were born to more than birds

And though this body will decay

I have faith, from whence it all began

We'll see another day

Then I'll sit with Cowper here

And share how I once shared his fears

And laugh, we'll both, remembering

The dark before the Golden Years