It's 4.34pm, and already today I have played the intrepid explorer no less than three times, at least to my reckoning. Firstly there was the matter of breakfast, which necessitated an early morning foray of five miles into nearby Ross-on-Wye to raid the local Sainsbury's for bacon (I am led to believe that bacon is a legal requirement on camping trips), and sundry other 'necessaries'*. Deeming it an excellent idea to purchase a £1.75 baking tray to act as a griddle, Lis and I were confident upon our return of a successful cooking episode, and were subsequently disappointed that, while the bacon was excellent, the tray warped and scorched in the centre. Retrospectively we shouldn't have been surprised given what we paid for it.
Breakfast complete, challenge number two was the voyage up-field to the toilet shed (no other name would really be accurate) for the undertaking of morning ablutions. Anyone who has ever camped will no doubt agree that this is a quest of great proportion and not to be undertaken lightly - it requires a vast array of plastic-bag-clad toiletries, and no small measure of bravery. This particular toilet shed did have three sinks (one of which was either a bidet or a spider house and therefore viewed with suspicion) and two mirrors, not to mention a working light. These amenities already placed it in the higher echelons of camping facilities; however, it lacked the following:
- soap, a basic sanitary requirement
- shelves, so all bottles ended up in the sinks
- hand-drying equipment, so just-dry jeans became damp again
We made the best of it and yes, I did attempt some make up, as pointless as it may be on a campsite.
But the greatest exploration of the day has been a soggy and strenuous one, piloting kayaks up and down the Wye - and for me, read 'piloting' as 'utterly failing to pilot and drifting in ever more frustrating circles'. Lis and Sian, being the boaty types, were in their element, while I lent merely my excitement and some brawn to the effort, pumping up Lis's inflatable two-man and helping to heft it down the steep stone steps to be launched. I watched with increasing concern as Sian slipped effortlessly into her little blue hire kayak, deftly paddling out into the stream, followed by Lis making barely a ripple as she seated herself at the helm of her own vessel. How to follow without capsizing it, falling into the water, or generally making a fool of myself was my first worry. Once I had managed this, keeping up with the strict paddling regimen of a woman who has coxed Oxford rowing teams was my second. While not hugely experienced in boats, I did think I had sufficient power and accuracy to a) paddle in a straight line, and b) steer accurately. Both assumptions were to be severely tested over the three hours we were on the water, and the water was on us (I'm still drying off as I write this).
It transpires that it's not really enough to maintain a steady rhythm and stroke hard with the paddles - the angle, the length of stroke, the depth to which the paddle-head is run, the speed - all of these factors which I hadn't considered were suddenly thrust upon me, and I rapidly realised that I was an amateur in the more negative sense of the word. This didn't matter so much at first given that I was second fiddle in the larger, more stable kayak, and our progress up the river against its flow was steady, if not rapid. It was when we beached so I could swap into the blue kayak that the trouble really started.
In order to exit the first boat, I had to clamber out into the shallows in my trainers (my wellies were broken so I hadn't brought them). Then, wet to my ankles, I had to turn the small kayak around and get onboard without over-balancing it, which is far too easy with such a light boat. Once in, I discovered that my legs were several inches too long for the farthest reach of the foot-rests, which are important for steering, so I had to attempt adjusting the seat position instead. With numb fingers and taut straps this took almost five minutes, and a tourist boat came by while I was stood in the kayak, bent over with my bottom sticking out toward them - probably not a sight to have been mentioned in the guide book. Poor Lis and Sian, as patient and helpful as they were, must have been desperate to carry on with the voyage. Finally I had made every adjustment I could and, knees still sticking above the 'cockpit' top, I pushed off from the beach ready to conquer the river.
Twenty minutes later, I had got all of twenty yards upstream. Every stroke I took was changing the direction of the boat, every corrective stroke was an over-correction, and as hard as I tried to emulate the directives and demonstrations being shouted downstream by my fellow-campers, I simply circled about in a helpless splashing eddy of irritation. 'Paddle, paddle, lean, push, wait, which foot do I push with? oh dammit, I'm going the wrong way... paddle, paddle!' Etc.
After half an hour I had almost managed to make it to the yellow boat on the shoreline which we had set as our target, but by a highly convoluted route and only narrowly avoiding being hit by two other tourist boats. I was exhausted and more than a little embarrassed at being apparently unable to master even the rudiments of this sport, especially as a good two dozen other kayaks had passed me, and none of their occupants seemed to be experiencing even the slightest difficulty. We agreed it would be best for me to swap back into the bigger boat and, feeling defeated, I turned back downstream.
But lo! what miracle was this? A gentle touch and the help of the current were, it seems, all I needed to ease me into some degree of confidence in this reactive craft. Forgetting 'proper' technique I went with my instinct, paddled gently, and made it back to the beach with some grace if no real expertise.
Lis decided to take a turn in my nightmare and I took the front seat of her two-man, so Sian and I could lazily drift/direct our way back downstream. It was this half of the journey that really brought the river to life for me - I was no longer struggling against it, but running at its own pace and becoming part, for a while, of its landscape. Beyond mature willows and aged pontoons, the shore rose steeply into the hill of Symonds Yat West on our right, heavily wooded and studded with houses, their elegant presence taking commanding positions along the rise. To the left the tree line was not so steep, and the road was briefly visible between fields of sheep. Before the final bend along the return to our campsite, a whitewashed pub with wrought-iron lettering and its own moorings and slipway beamed invitingly in intermittent sunshine. Two dogs took it in turns to retrieve what looked like a small breadloaf from the water, and laughter echoed from the landing area as canoeists jostled in friendly manner for a place to stop off. Around the corner the Saracen's Head became visible at the far end of the next stretch of river, also whitewashed and beckoning, small blue umbrellas lined up along the front.
The water was full of bright streaks of colour, another dozen or so canoes and kayaks, no one boat matching its owner's helmet for hue - so many lurid buoys bobbing in the wake of yet another tour boat. We had to wait a good ten minutes for the landing strip at the foot of the stone steps to be clear, during which time we observed three kayaks launched down the steep chute and nose-down into the water with a splash. I was secretly very glad that we had not chosen this method ourselves, as wobbly as I might have been climbing in earlier in the afternoon. I wasn't much steadier upon exit, hauling myself onto the wet muddly concrete and finding that in three hours my legs had forgotten how to perform on land and were only just capable of getting me back up the steps.
And so, 3pm found me drenched from my own splashings, ravenous for lunch, and of the decided option that next time I was forking our for a lesson. After all, I couldn't get any worse!
*so designated because I'm not convinced that dark chocolate, fresh orange juice, and breaded ham quite count as essential.
