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.