One step closer

Gallery: Trip Seven

willd — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 04:24:00 GMT

Gallery: Trip five: The dreary spires of Ditcott

willd — Tue, 4 Aug 2009 08:14:00 GMT

Gallery: Trip Four: Strained Sinews

willd — Tue, 4 Aug 2009 08:05:00 GMT

Trip Six: The Long One

willd — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 20:49:00 GMT

Trip Six: The Long One

Clifton Hampden – Reading

The last trip of a languid ½ hour jaunt along the Thames was one of enjoyment and pleasure for the two adventurers. The problem is that enjoyment and leisure do not equate too many miles of distance travelled. If the finishing line was ever going to be gained other than in the imagination then there would have to be a few more trips of largesse in distance and not titillation. The distance from base camp that needs to be completed before each individual expedition now demands military planning to hone the hours until each one can be squeezed for its maximum productivity. Things just got seriouser [sic].

Start

The caravan park that was to be the place of launch provided adequate facilities for various ablutions that are needed before a long trip; where certain conveniences can be rare. Whether the caravan park agreed or condoned the activities is a moot point better left for others to pick over the niceties of trespass and the like.

The canoes were slipped in under the watchful arches of the red bridge of Clifton Hampden; the geese clacking in the background and the water lapping against the ragged river bank. The pub that had provided such a nice meal on the last trip looked increasingly inviting under the brooding skies of this rainy summer day.

The prospect of 20 miles of river lying out before a person is daunting when setting out at the very beginning. The distance is know, the amount of effort needed and the weather provide the unquantifiable anomalies that can turn a trip up on its head.

Clifton Hampden - Wallingford

The military planning didn’t quite extend to having a map that covered the first part of the journey to Wallingford; using the incisive power of hindsight this probably only going to be a good think. The beginning is always the difficult part to get through; knowing that the bulk is still ahead. Constantly checking the map is akin to checking you watch regularly: the more you check it the less distance you seem to cover. It is something that should be rationed. This little trick means that hopefully you are surprised when finally check the map and see how much distance you have finally done.

The phrase was heard between the two adventurers “are we one the map yet” as if some craven desire to be validated on the map was needed to judge the constant paddling a success. Whence the two actually made it ‘on to the map’ they were surprised at their position; but not in the positive sense. It looked as though just one insignificant meander had been completed, at about ¼ of the distance – slightly daunting no doubt.

At Benson was an old artillery pill box circa WWII situated on the North bank of the Thames over looking the flood plains to the south. All the various pill boxes are situated on the Northern bank and the artillery slots that some of them house always face south, out across the Thames and not along its course. It could be surmised then that there was no fear of the river being used as an actual invasion path itself. The Thames has long been a heavily defended border being the demarcation between the Wessex and the Anglo-Saxons in the south and the Viking Danes in the north during the dark ages and probably many unrecorded times before; such is the role that this river plays in English history.

Benson was home to boat hiring firm that specialised not in hiring out the twee narrow boats but the gross gin palace types that fill the whole lock when passing through and gives the people on board the height to look down their noses at a more acute angle than even the type of people who hire these boats out are used to.

Under the heavily suggestive control of a grumbling stomach and flagging energy levels a brief stop was made at the Bridge in Wallingford to stock up on some vittles. The historic bridge once was home to a Saxon burgh and was an important fording point between the kingdoms of Mercia and Wessex. The conserved water meadow that now predominated makes a pleasant enough impromptu picnic spot.

Wallingford Bridge stopped to take on vittles, and look on the water meadows. Now revitalised, having done two hours paddling and only being a third of the way down the map didn’t seem quite so bad to the adventurers.

Wallingford to Goreing

The next section of the journey was where the meat of the journey would be done. Where the half way point would be achieved; it’s all down hill from there. In this stretch of the river the Chilterns start to rear up to the north side of the river, they being the first real hills since the Cotswolds were left behind above Oxford.

Time can pass slowly when the monotony of paddling sets in and to ward of boredom turning to dark thoughts every good adventurers need their little game to take their mind off the task in hand. For our two adventurers it was the ‘The ‘Ow much’ game. The Thames as you would expect has some pretty impressive properties backing onto it. They are the sort that even a national lottery winner would struggle to buy and get any change from. The game basically consists of guessing the price of each waterside property, with the realisation that the money talked about will only be in the imagination of many. How do you find the worth of a 12 bedroom house looking down the sweeping 3 acre garden onto the Thames?

Wallingford rowing club had their youngest members out for practice. Three boats lead by a blustery, red faced many casually berating the youngsters for the faults. He was not the most endearing kind of chap. One you suspects quite enjoys gaining through schadenfreud that slight ego boost that some get from order people around. All the rowers looked slightly less than enthusiastic at their situation, but the proof is in the achievement one would guess.

On of the endearing little foibles of river life is the name of the boats. This tells you more about the people that own them than the actual boat themselves. The romantics - Sweet Dreams III, Wind in the Willows II; the lovers looking to impress - Mary-Sue, Gladys. The entertainers - Aquaholic, Scooby Blue ; the Honest – mid life crisis; and the penny pinchers – overdraught III, ‘Ow much and the Only Child. I’m looking our for remortgaged IIIII; I bet its out there somewhere. The best by far though is the brutally honest of amazingly self incriminating: crime Pays.

Goring to Pangbourne

It was easy on the map to decide that completing and extra meander on the river was a good idea. When in the canoe and paddling those extra couple of miles the decision doesn’t seem quite so convincing.

Pangbourne to Reading

Expecting the finish to be along the straight, it tantalised until in the distance the crane that signified the boat house where we had parked the car appeared and vigour returned to fatigued muscles as the certain finish line powered tired bodies to the finish line. The long hours of paddling had meant the bodies had crossed from landlubbers to sea dogs and where not keen to make the return journey onto land in any quick fashion. They let their disgust known as the venture in to the unknown gait of walking turned slightly comic with some circus cum drunken style reeling and staggering.

The water left at this point will reach our destination in London long before we manage to get there as it pushes on with its inevitable journey to the sea. The next time there will be more water, the same constant flow to bear us down just as there has been centuries before and will be in centuries to come.

Conclusion

The twenty miles was hard done. It was an epic that will be retold, and hopefully become more interesting in the retelling, in the future when the generations will wish to know about the twenty mile kayak trip. Seven hours of continuous paddling doesn’t have many specific rewards when the protagonist is actually in the mists of the endeavour, the rewards come after with the sense of achievement. When a person knows that they have pushed themselves and come out the other side of the challenge intact. The kudos is well deserved. Many people have done things more impressive and many people things less impressive. But it is done: target set and distance achieved; of that there is no doubt.

Having said that, the two will possibly reduce the distance to 15 miles next time. The canoes just can’t take twenty miles in one go. Yes the canoe, that’s the reason. And you don’t want to set the bar too high each time; it will just cheapen the sense of achievement from the first time around. That is enough of such aggrandising

P.S. forgot the camera on this leg L

Trip Five: The Dreary Spires of Didcott

willd — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 00:44:00 GMT

The Dreary Spires of Didcott.

The beginning of this journey coughed spluttered and lurched into being. The course of a true journey never runs smooth as is exhibited in an awkward piece of planning that resulted in – how shall I put this – a ‘tardy’ start to the day. Mobile phones, GPS, e-mail and carrier pigeon are just some of the cutting edge tools that modern day adventurers such as our two roving buccaneers have at their disposal had to tackle the wilds of Oxfordshire. Despite this welter of available technology they are only as good as the people who communicate with them. In this case a sunny mixture of drink, 3 mobile phones and general happenstance all combined fatefully to engineer this late start. It’s a good job that there is nothing relying on these twos organization beyond transporting their two bodies over a stretch of water in the hedonistic pursuit of ‘fun’. Could you imagine these pair organising the relief of Ladsburg? It is more a charge of the light brigade; unashamedly brash and headlong. Unlikely to upset their precedent of dubiously organisation they ploughed on undeterred by these happenings.

It was glorious in the finest sense of the word. The wind coming from the south east causing the rivers surface to dimple into a kaleidoscope of light as the warm summer sun set the days jolly temperament. The pub beer garden overlooking the river looked slightly forlorn, waiting for its revellers to arrive later in the day to soak up the desirable fluvial ambience of the Thames. The dreary towers of Didcot hailed from the distance off to the right. The tall towers of the power station stand dominating the local landscape, to feed mans insatiable consumption of power. They stand almost serene framed in their might against the all encompassing sky.

The banks of the river in this spot were well maintained with piles driven vertically down into the river bank holding back the elemental fight of time and water that occurs between the bank and the river in producing the rivers course. For those who have not benefitted from Geography degree rivers move in many ways. The river moves as the water from the headlands, sauntering down, draining the Thames watershed. The rivers channel itself also moves, albeit over a larger time frame. Rivers actually migrate. They do not migrate to Australia for better weather or to the US for the bright lights of Hollywood. They do not chase that perfect retirement villa in Spain or go to find themselves in Asia but nevertheless they will migrate as sure as water and gravity exists. They migrate downstream as the falling gradient of the now large and lumbering river eases it into a tortuous route. The river now like an indolent teenager who has no purpose to propel them along, bumps downstream; propelled by Time but not purpose in the parameter that life has ordained.

The process that propels this is due to the outside of the river channel flowing faster than that in the middle and thus having power to erode. The outside flow or a river eats into the bank and the inside flow deposits silt. Thus what the river takes it gives back as the meanders move down the flood plain only hemmed in by the surrounding topography. No, the river is more of an asylum seeker punched and restricted to man whims and desires. Trying to escape from mans arbitrary boundaries but always rained and subjugated in the end.

The spot at which the canoes where launched was a natural habitat for many types of detritus, with the scourge that is broken glass seeming to dominate. This is far from ideal in the world of water sports, where sturdy boots are not paramount apparel. There were no sign of the canal missionaries moored to their own spots so the religiously non religious were safe from their kind advances.

The waterfront of Abingdon was soon reached. Abingdon’s raison d’être is usually sighted as being a suburb or overspill for its grander neighbour of Oxford. This is a slightly unfair approximation as Abingdon has its own waterfront charm with old stone built buildings looming up against the river embankment. The Wiltshire and Berkshire canal also joins the Isis at this point built originally to transport coal but ending up supporting its own demise as it provided the entire infrastructure to supply the construction of the GWR line that never mirrors its route.

Abingdon.

Not far after Abingdon is the Culham cutting. Now this short cut is the main navigable route of the Thames but entirely man made to cut of a large meander of the river. The old maxim concerning short cuts first aired in the film road trip is “ well if it was easy it would just be the way” does not hold as this act shortened the distance considerable. Is it cheating though?

Ever felt like staring at something for an interminably length of time for very little reward. Well there is a ‘sport’ in town for you now! It’s called fishing. The original notion was that it was a means to catch fish. You cast your maggot out into the water and wait for the fish to bite. Judging by the fisherman that lined the bank of this part of the Thames the catching of fish element seems to have become obsolete as they sat there staring disconsolately in their own melancholy. Where is the entertainment or fun in that? I fear it is secret locked deep in the heart of these brooding fishermen who eye up waterborne passers by with a deep seated suspicion that all their ills are caused by these intruders into their world.

The speed of travel was surprisingly quick on this day. It was almost disconcertingly so for the two. The river had shifted to a more easterly source with Didcott power stations chimneys now to their back. The wind coming out of the South-West also helped propel, and provide that extra helping hand that Nature can give and take away with an equally arbitrary turn in either direction.

A sense of ease was detectable as the characteristic Redbridge of Clifton Hamden appeared up ahead to signal the end of the day. Its multiple arches marching across the river with the afternoon traffic accelerating hard as the facilitating traffic lights changed to green on the road that lay a-top. Taking a short cut through a holiday park allowed access back to parked car. The best approach to take when you are not supposed in any particular place is to act that you are indeed supposed to be there. Taking this idea into account are two canoeists managed to cross the park with out reproach from any irate park warden. Like any good finish the village provided a well stocked pub that did a mean scampi and chips and did not object to having to serve two slightly damp people smelling vaguely of river water and sporting healthy sunburn. This after all is the Cotswolds no more. The wide Thames Valley lies in front. No quaint Cotswold villages clad in stone of golden hue but onto to the metropolis’s of South-East England’s contagious sprawl.

Don't forget to check out the photos on the right hand page of the home page.

Trip Five – Saturday 20^th

Abingdon – Clifton Hampden

Trip Four: Strained Sinews

willd — Sat, 4 Jul 2009 23:09:00 GMT

Fourth Trip Strained Sinews The beginning was not a display of logistics and time keeping. Have you ever noticed that time stands still longer for those who are stood still. Those racing to get to a point feel time slipping away through their finger like sand through the hour glass. Those that are waiting feel the inordinate stretching of time as the desire to fill it with something stimulating becomes almost to much to bear. That was how the day began: a mad rush for one of the pair and a boring wait for the other. The wait in the car park did reveal some good freebies as a jerry can and funnel found in the bushes whilst going for a piss where worth a good twenty quid. Quite why there was jerry can deposited in the bushes of an out of the way car park I’m sure can be innocently explained – just not by this blog. It was a bright day setting off from Wolvercote the chavs where frolicking in on port meadow as the sun stretched its lazy rays. There is something quite strange in seeing chavs out of their urban environment. They don’t seem quite so comfortable in migrating even this short way out of urban Oxford. The arrival into Oxford with the cattle grazing in the south of Port Meadow and the stand of pollarded willow trees on the west bank give for a wonderful reception into Oxford proper. The first unusual sight of Oxford was a dismembered heading bobbing along against the current. The pair forgetting they were not Catholic quickly crossed themselves and made the sign against the evil eye. When the dismembered head started talking it was found that although it was a human head there was a body below the surface belonging to a middle age woman who obviously enjoyed river swimming. They are a rare breed now raised before the spectre of imminent death from weils disease and other waterborne illness became over hyped. It was a good idea to swim in the water above Oxford rather than below them for obvious reasons. Being hedonitst at heart our explorers set of along a back water as the Thames braided. The stream followed led past the canal. The water course here was more congealed and impenetrable than many areas back on the Evenlode. The only thing that changed was the type of obstruction. Where once fallen willows and other natural flotsam had blocked the course now submerged bikes and shopping trolleys choked-up the way. The back water of Oxford also contained another impediment in the shape of a vertical weir. A little old lady walking a dog near by took a shine to one of the duo and offered advice on how best to navigate this set back as previous canoeists had done. “Nay lady. Surely none have dared to ventured in these here parts before”. Apparently they had and had easily got around the weir that was currently perplexing the passage of our duo. The centre of oxford with uproarious pubs lining the banks doing a great trade slid by giving way to the Oxford colleagues’ boat houses. They lined the river banks sporting architecture from the art-deco era to the more modern battle start style. I believe that the ‘battle star’ form of architecture is not officially recognised but this imposing boat house of brick, slicked in black is best summed up in that way. Rusticated into the countryside away from all the cosmopolitan joggers and intellectuals reading their classics on the river bank the rivers character turned a bit more bucolic again. An uninhabited, quaint boat house that was bigger than most peoples housing desires appeared on the east bank belying the large stately home on the hill with its sweeping landscape and memorials dominating this section of the river. Travelling on this wide open river the only bar to travel is the speed at which the paddle can be dipped in and out, in and out, over and over again. This can make for tiring work as the biological lumps behind the paddles try to keep the pace up to meet with their deadline at Abingdon. The first lock was unmanned. Maybe the usually diligent lock keepers needed to be somewhere urgently. After the ease and servitude of previous lock keepers to the twos progression the ignominy of having to exit the canoe and drag it around the lock smarted. The second lock keeper was more conducive to our duos progress letting them through without a hindrance. The adjacent public houses sorely testing the resolve of two finally honed athletes in need of alcoholic rehydration. The deadline was not quite met at Abingdon where every boat this side of London appeared to be moored. The only place to alight was these public moorings. The fact that they rose vertically for half a metre from the river was not ideal for canoeists. Weary but determined legs overcame the issue to find that the boat that was next to them sported a sign “canal missionary society”. When the occupant of the barge started making headway over to the two their legs found new energy in avoiding undue proselytising and went of in such of more ungodly entertainment for a Saturday night.

Trip Three: Gaining the Thames

willd — Thu, 2 Jul 2009 07:46:00 GMT

Gaining the Thames: Only two months later than expected.

Coombe Station to Wolvercote (North Oxford)

It was started where it finished, by the water meadows of the Cotswolds. The sun benevolently beaming being down its warming rays. The plants not quite as verdant as previously found, as the heady days of early summer had sapped the vigour of spring, the stalks of the meadows began to lighten to that golden hue. The atmosphere of lethargy began sang as the choir of Nature began to sing its sweet lullaby to those who listened; the stream flowing over the pebbles of the riverbed, reverberating under the sweeping arch of the enduring Cotswold bridge; the low humming buzz from the busy insect-life among the flowers of the riverside.

The vegetation line at the side off the river channel suspended above the waterline highlights the recent fall in the river flow due to the suns pervasive influence, as transpiration and evaporation take their toll on the watershed.

The river weeds that grows out of the river, no doubt helped by the fertiliser run off, were slightly higher that the previous month. The river weed that grows the most abundantly in the fast flowing shallows is like a submerged mat across the river; increasing the drag of the boats and glutinously clawing at the paddles as they are dipped in and out. The nimble little Moorhen, light in mass, flit across these floating islands a head of our more ponderous approach. The reed-like stems of others reach out of their watery channel, grasping upwards for the sun filled sky. The nests of departed water birds clinging precariously, tell of their vernal use now obsolete, as we brush through. They rear up nearly two meters high from the river, some times barring the whole channel in their exuberance; like a think luxuriant forest nodding backwards and forwards in the rivers flow.

This growth conspires against any easy navigation. To those of you imagining a wide hansom channel to canoe down you are much mistaken. Don’t think of the channel as a river, more a giant grow bag with a small stream of water running over the top. The reeds and weeds grow out of any site where they can get enough purchase to send down roots in this most competitive of growing environments. The whole ecosystem of the river is vast and varied. Much more, I suspect than some of the farmland surrounding it.

Best practice to breaching these forests is to build up speed and scythe through brining the paddle in line with the canoe. If this momentum fails to brink you out on the other side then a complex and highly annoying procedure takes place as the absence of space precludes the use of the more conventional paddle stroke. It’s best described as a cross between pruning, punting and what I am going to coin as the helicopter manoeuvre. The punting option relies on there being a hard base to be able to push through; the pruning option to try and clear a path. The helicopter manoeuvre, the most useful, bespeaks of a highly controlled and mechanical exercise. It is not. It is more a thrash as you wield the paddles trying to gain a purchase on any weed, reed, water or bank that will offer enough purchase to propel the craft forward. I doubt that they teach this in the canoeing textbooks. Then again I often doubt the protagonists’ sanity.

Little aides like this increase the ‘river worthiness’ of the travel; the ability to overcome blockages with out impacting on the time too much. Originally blockages were tackled with abject dejection; finding a point to get out. This is never straight forward as most of the river bank is thick with nettles. The exiting points are either deep where any false moves ends up in a dunking or a shallow area where the glutinous mud greets your feet, don’t stop, or bash through like an ice breaker. The first flight of many immature ducks was witnessed that day. Over the course of previous trips we had seen the duckling grown from small chicks that duck under the undergrowth on your arrival to now immature ducks not quite flown. Many of these luckless birds panicked at the arrival of such an unusual craft into their lives and stream and so set off noisily flapping down river. Most were new to this form of exercise and only now driven to it by fear and looked even more bemused as their flapping finally propelled them into an ungraceful flight.

We are the intrepid explorers of the Evenlode valley. The sense of isolation and other worldliness that a river provides can cut you away from your usual thinking. Battling through the growth of the river roots you more to the immediate spot, trying to progress. Travel is no way near as fast or convenient as the modern world is used to. It is you against Nature, trying to create your way with your own hands and basic equipment. This sense of isolation, naturally engendered by river travel, and overcoming the natural barriers of the river soon enable the more imaginative to fancy they adventurers of the Victorian ilk; brave, strong and noble in their endeavour. The overhanging foliage of trees and shrubs dip their limbs in the limp creating a fetid atmosphere where only the nefarious can survive. These bushy bastions transmit the bugs and beasts that they support on to the intrepid explorers as they pass. The journey down the fabled Styx overcoming all that Hades can throw.

There are times when any reality nastily cuts into the minds imagination so forceful that even Don Quixote cannot ignore the reality. After battling the growth of the river and climbing over fallen limbs you can suddenly arrive into a perfectly manicured garden that belongs to a gentrified Mill House. The mansion mill that you suddenly come across, scrubbed of its character and a garden manicured oppressively to death; there is no accounting the taste of those with money. You can go from intrepid explorers in the wilds of nature to furtive scallys as you dart across the perfectly coiffured lawns transferring from the mill stream to the main channel; from champion of your world to cautious crawler in someone else’s.

A large pool that is usually found in the streams meander appeared immediately ahead. Then suddenly the banks that were never more than four or five metres apart, disorientatingly open up to reveal a large channel. This turned out to be the Thames. The Thames gained at last. A feeling of achievement washed over the pair as they had finally reached what could be regarded as the beginning of the way to the Thames barrier. The feeling of disorientation is quite overwhelming as your horizons open up from meters in to miles. Going from battling through the little stream with its blockages to floating on a canalised river, dredged and order for our navigation, was quite tangible. Previously meeting any people in passing on the Evenlode was unthinkable but within 1 minute of reaching the Thames a convoy of holiday barges chugged past with helmsman drawing long sips on cans of beer a throwing languid waves of acknowledgment.. It was the Amazon adventure no more; it was the Costa del Thames.

Judging that the sense of achievement should be properly celebrated the two stopped for a picnic. At this point it is obligatory to fall in, discovering that dredged rivers get very deep very quickly. Releasing buoyancy aids with a ping of the strap revealed that humans can support a surprising amount of bugs; a veritable ecosystem created as the beasties from the over hanging trees earlier had found a good substitute.

Oxfords announced its proximity as the two past under the busy road bridge that supplied the cities commuting life blood. The old red brick bride lying adjacent resplendent in its retirement, overshadowed but not overawed by it larger contemporary neighbour.

The first incremental weir hove in to view; one that you can shoot safely with a fibreglass kayak. For those not used to such actions shooting a wear can appear dangerous. Floating at the top of the weir the heart rate picks up and you stare down the drop like a bungee jumper peering into the abyss. Steel the heart, follow the impulse and paddle flat out over the edge. There’s a one second ‘rush’ as you slide down, the adrenaline threatens to kick in, but it’s over, over too quickly. Looking back what appeared a mighty drop from the weirs zenith looks little more than a mere bump in the river. A feeling of slight disappointment surfaced. When you steel yourself for such an action you expect a bit more adrenaline in repayment.

The speed picks up dramatically on the easily navigable Thames and the slow barges can easily be overtaken by canoes if you really want to aggravate a competitive boat owner.

The luxury of the locks Godstowe and Kings Locks was far too easy. I half wanted to scale the pound gates and drag the canoe over to placate the sense of guilt at the ease or it. No need for that here though. You simply swan up wait for the lock keeper to open the gates paddle in wait a little more for the water to fall and that was it.

A ruined abbey or monastery on the western bank stood derelict looking onto the river, the bank thick with day-trippers walking along.

There was no bucolic finish as previous. The finish of this leg was on a large meadow on the outside of Oxford. It was unsurprisingly popular with many people on a warm day like this. The people were an eclectic mix stretching from chavs skimming stones, yards away from the canoe and families taking advantage of the space to play games.

Wildlife:

Numerous kingfishers
Two herons surprised but more seen – their haste into flight could not rush their customary, languid bearing as they took to the skies at our arrival.
Flotillas of geese.
Reed warblers on the Thames banks.
One pair of swan’s encountered and a wide berth given. In fact they are the only impediment that necessitates having to get our and drag the canoes around anymore (bar the mill). One adolescent moping around on his own was quite happy to let us pass by with out the need to protect any brood of his.

Trip Two: A swan can break your arm don't you know!

willd — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 02:42:00 GMT

:A swan can break your arm don't you know!

Finstock to Coombe Station

A day juxtaposed to the first’ sunny mien, with overcast skies and the threat of heavy rain to come. The days ambitions where rolled back slightly and the sights where set on a stint from Finstock to Long Hanbourough. Oxford would have to wait for another day.

There were still blockages in the day but where less serious and robust than the previous ones. That was also allayed to an improvement techniques dealing with these annoyances. The pelvic shuffle was an important innovation. It is no way near salacious as it sounds. To get through the flotsam the dams behind the blockage involves charging at it flat out until you come to a stop and then inching yourself forward with a shunt of the pelvis until you reach branch to help drag yourself through with or gain the other side. The Willow limbo was also another asset in getting through obstruction. When the Willow falls across the river it rarely lies flat in the waterline. Most leave a gap of about 50cm where the flow keeps the channel clear. By leaning back on the canoe with your chin sticking out like a conning tower you can scrape under by the skin of your teeth, the branch looming over as looming over cms from the eyes as the canoes float by. It’s quite daunting as once committed to this limbo the flow and the body position means your committed to the manoeuvre even if the height is a bit less than first envisioned.

Lambs where in evidence in all the fields around with some errant youths being stuck at the bottom of an overhanging riverbank.

The river is a deeply mesmerising place; the world is the river. The stream is only about 4 metres apart and with high banks this can severely limit your scope of sight. It gives you an isolated feeling that you do not feel when travelling about on car or even foot. Importantly people do not expect to see people using such an un-navigable stream, which allows you to surprise some people who feel that they’re safe in their privacy around the river. Such people include the lady who needed to relieve herself in some woodland adjacent to the stream and various people walking their dogs along the banks.

An amazing sight was witnessed as a Hobby Falcon was chasing some swallows about the sky. If ever there was bird that was going to be impossible to catch it is the Swallow with it nimble and pacy flight. Hobby’s are obviously undaunted by this aerial display and was exhibiting its own brand of prowess as it swooped down from on high to try and catch is fleet of wing prey. The Hobby apparently follows its prey up from North Africa, but quite why it hasn’t decided to go for the lumbering pigeons that were cowering uneasily in their close-by woodland perch.

The rain that had threatened earlier had had arrived in force and stayed for most of the day. Deluges that happened through the day gave the impression that there was more water falling from the heavens than was below in the river.

This didn’t help to make the river easier to navigate. More incontinence on the rivers behalf as we reach a point where all the willow had been cut down. Unfortunately they were cut down and dumped into the river rather than laid at the side.

The fucking swans appeared in the distance and proved near impossible to get around. It looked a bit like Hazel Blears in its aloofness, swanning around and feathering its own nest. Best practice with animals is to avoid eye contact and seem uninterested in their existence. The problem is they slowly swim downstream with the pen(mother) at the front with the cygnets and the Cob in the rear guard keeping the two canoeists away from his brood. Trying to skirt around the family group ended up with one of the canoeists being found between the cob and the rest of his family. The cob launched into focussed apoplexy, as he feared for his family. Coming downstream with his massive wingspan beating towards this perceived threat he made a grand and alarming sight. This swan attack was only dealt with by a swift paddle to the neck of the approaching swan deflecting his bile forcing him to carry on downstream to unite with the rest of his family. A managed retreat was the order of the day and from then on Swans were dealt with as more implacable blockage to progress than any obstacles formed by the willows.

One more blockage downstream meant that the canoes had to be dragged across a field. The only problem was that it was full of dumb ass heifers following the two’s ungainly progress across the field like the pied piper of Hamlin for cows. It would be easy to start a religion if you were a cow. They’ll follow anything that’s more enthralling than the blade of grass in front of their nose.

The ending of the day was glorious, as the rain of the day had given way to some late sunshine as the canoes were dragged out for the final time in a Cotswold water meadow.

Trip One: Let there be water....and there was a bit.

willd — Sat, 23 May 2009 02:37:00 GMT

You can't argue with a river, it is going to flow. You can dam it up put it to useful purposes deflect it, but you can't argue with it.

-Acheson, Dean Gooderham

Trip One: Shipton to Finstock.

The masculine mind is never better made up when it is founded more on conviction than sense. So it that the intrepid duo inspected their sturdy craft that was to be their trusty steeds through the up and coming travails. When you go off into the unknown on such a journey the bond of trust between man and craft is essential. One leak can leave you stranded literally miles from the nearest road with only farmers land to trespass upon. The point is that it is essential to have the finest equipment at your disposal to limit the chance of anything going awry. The old adventurers maxim suggest a journey should have adventurers with years of wisdom upon their brow and cutting edge equipment to robustly deal with any situation of fortune.

The canoes in question had recently had an overhaul to bring them inline with the latest innovation in camouflage techniques that involved acute angles of shade and lines of concealment; no errant U-boat that had travelled forward in time and up the Evenlode would pick these boys off lightly. As important as this addition to the craft was in its evasive or underwater hunters it was rendered largely facile by the colour: bright orange and red. This camouflage would blend in perfectly at a Mare-di gras festival with the bright gay colours and feather bowyers among which these boats would move with undetectable decorum; not showing up on the radar of any casual peruser. However on the leafy bounty of North Oxfordshire where the river runs as blue as the inhabitants voting habits they would be a rare sight indeed – exotic even.

The boats are of original construction holding the attributes that had launched the character of kayaking back in the day. One touring canoe of fibreglass construction that had a deep keel like structure perfect for the open laneways of the wide tidal Thames and one a sportier number that would be perfect for slaloming around a tight course of white water; neither of which the Evenlode provides. They were however of rather vintage years though well maintained, and reinvigorated sporting their new fashion, ready for the journey ahead.

Any trip should be thoroughly planned in advance. Every detail nailed down with nails of logic so no irksome problem can wriggle free and rear its malevolent head no matter how persistent. Maps, maps are the great paradigm of any great adventure, the reading of which is key to keep these problems at bay. The only available maps of Terra North Oxfordshire were collected together and studied for the route that would meander the party down stream. The boon of river travel is that you always know where you are going; you just recline in your thought and follow the gentle convulsions of the course and the map will show your point.

As you would expect the precise locations of stop of points, potential hazards, and timing were dealt with in concise and efficient manner. Craft ready, route planned and spirit high it was time to launch.

Inhabiting somewhere in a ‘Swallows and Amazon’ book the day was a brilliant spring exhibition; the land awaking from its winter slumber as the warming rays caressed and the land unfurled from its winter stasis. A gently sloping sward reached down to the rivers edge with and inviting fording point that breached the waters of the Evenelode stream. This was the negligible body that would take the pair down to its larger sibling in the South: The Thames.

One of the most obvious and disconcerting facts to strike you is the number of holes scrapped into the riverbank. The river had dropped below the levels of the rivers winter nadir. The amount that it had dropped allows you to see what was below the waterline in the winter; and presumably is below the water line now. The whole of the bank had been delved into and holes disappeared back into a dark point. These busy house builders are apparently the Signal Crayfish that has invaded from North America having worked its way up the Thames in the last 20 years. The amount construction – or deconstruction – of the river bank tells that their must be 10, 000 of these crayfish in this stream. The sheer amount that must be found in this stream makes you wonder just what goes on in the murky water below. There must be legions of these crayfish bulldozing every other type aquatic life that used to be found in this ecosystem. At the very minimum it will make you think if every you decide to step into the river if there is to be a carpet of these strong clawed invaders.

Paddling down stream gives you the feeling of achieving more speed than the effort you are actually putting in as the flow sweeps you downstream. The original pace however was checked by old man willow who belly flopped across to create a blockage. Many Alders and Willows flank the river. The Willows having a particular penchant for collapsing into the stream as their roots purchase was eventually eroded away by the winter spates. This section of river was in bad need a colonic. These fallen willows create impenetrable dams of flotsam and jetsam that the river carries to this point. The willows create the original blockage, but this is added to as everything from tyres, lawn furniture, dead sheep and smaller trees mix together to create a disgusting floating barrier to the original Willow.

This unholy blockage necessitated having to get out and around. This is not just as straightforward as is it first sounds. You need to find a place where the bank is low enough to climb and an area of bank that is clear of vegetation. It also adds an inordinate amount of time onto the journey and saps the strength in this effort to move a couple of metres down stream. Just think how easy it is to paddle three metres and here it takes half an hour to get around this one blockage.

Sadly for progress this blockage was not a one off. A Recce ahead – taking further time – showed that this section of the river would have to be bypassed as the canoes where dragged along by its side.

This was just the start of a series of blockages. The next one meant having to get out at a point where cattle drank from the river. The cow’s hoofs create deep pitted and uneven areas that are hard to travel across and the mixing of cows excrement and river mud that oozed over you foot at every step was less the desired.

It was with a dawning realisation that we were never going to reach Oxford in this one day as Charlbury – about a third of the way there – was reached. A tactical assessment was taken in the pub where all the worlds’ most posing problems are discussed and solved. The decision was taken to continue to Finstock and get a lift from there. The weather was balmy as the early summer sun rained down. This type of weather had brought out swarms of children who were playing in the stream just outside Charlbury. The dual hazard of shallows and kids where problematic needing verbal entreaties and physical strength to get through – you know which way around it was!

A change of landscape through occurred as we went through landscaped park with many Alder trees grinning over the river as the light began descend with the sun. One more series of Willow intransigence has the two alighting from the river to carry the canoes 200 metres that sapped the strength of weary shoulders.

A family of swans caused a hold up as they refused to allow us past. Luckily this was right at the end and the swan posed as the canoes were dragged out; beating his wins and posturing at his alleged victory in forcing us off the river. Well that’s how he saw it.

The day ended with our two trying to find a lift back to their transport having misjudged the finish point by about 20 miles. In this trip the canoes have had the years of wisdom on their brows and the protagonists the fresh faced energy to overcome the days problem.

Summary. Lost one pair of sun glasses, Broken: one phone; Consumed: one bottle of cider half a gallon of river water; gained: inoculation against weils disease a thick veneer of river mud; scratched paint work; animals seen; king fisher, swans, ducks, rabid children

Rivers flow but never end.

But who divines around the bend.

Their course set in map predicted

To find that out, we’re all addicted.

Introduction - Riding the Isis

willd — Wed, 6 May 2009 22:57:00 GMT

Riding the Isis

This is a simple tale a simple journey. It is a tale of not of intrigue, spite and jealousy. I’m afraid it has none of the juicier parts of the human condition to titillate your bored and preoccupied sensibilities. No this is a simple tale of two men. They’re bestowed with the far more common human traits of ignorance and an ability to apply yourself to a task that appears largely pointless; tasks that appear to put hindrances in the way of leisure rather than act as its promoter. Though seemingly pointless there can be a wealth of minor challenges that can combine to create a most rewarding experience of these hard and seemingly pointless endeavours.

Obstacles can be surmounted in the traditional English way of making light of situations no matter what. That magical ability to turn a situation on its head through pig headedness in the face of facts and wringing that silver lining out of the darkest cloud. When faced with an overburdened load of facts that say: this is impossible. They simply ignore the senses and carry on.

Do not ever underestimate the role of ignorance in bringing about brilliant actions. It is always the bad neighbour of knowing and knowledge but this is largely unfair on this marginalized state of mind. Would any of our great explorers ever had set sail for those distant and far away lands of hope and glory if they had full knowledge of the travails that were going to assault them upon their journey. Would Shackleton have set of on his voyage for imperial might if he had the foresight to have predicted to him the whole of what was about to unfurl. I fear that he might have set out on another round of tea and crumpets in front of a nice log fire had he known. Instead we have a man that is still a beacon for the human resilience and enterprise when pitted against seemingly impossible odds. No Ignorance can be our friend when we set off on journey.

Armed with ample amounts of this sentiment our brave duo head of on and adventure. Two guys, two canoes and one river. Who knows where it will head.

So, this Journey with simple canoes. A journey down the Evenlode into the Isis, riding this ancient vein of the country from the bucolic splendour of the ancient Wychwood through dreaming spires to the heart of the nation: London. Then to its guarding sentinels: the Thames barrier. The Isis is one name for the Thames. Old farther Thames will always have a few tricks up his sleeve to keep the newcomers in check. Join us on a venture through history, geography, nature and that most amusing medium, the human mind.

Thailand

willd — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 16:56:00 GMT

Thailand

We walked across the bridge from Malaysia to be embraced in a big bear hug by the communual chaos of Thailand. It would have been easy to walk past the slightly gentrified huts that pass for immigration here. The Thais actually gave us the most grilling so far as to what we were doing and even had the hi-tech photo database running.

As we sauntered away under the weight of our bags and the sun we were acousted by a cyclo driver offering his services to the train station. The following situation was pure comdey and if it does not sound thus then the fault lies entirely in me. The Cyclo was of the most rickerty and decrepid make. It was probably next off the production line after the Penny farthings. The bike part was to one side and the platform sprouted off perpendicular to it. My back was deposited onto the back where upon the whole cyclo reared backwards in distress. To counter the bikes distress we hoisted ourselves up onto the platform in a precarious repose. Looking like those circus clowns forced to ride on bikes of tiny proportion. On this carriage of comedy we set off to the station. Our combined weight made every revolution of the pedals a triumph of the mans will. Luckily the gradient coursed down untill an inconcieved pot hole juggled off the bike lamp. The taxi behind came to a holt a-top this errant lamp and much discussion was expended in regaining the situation. Then we set of again with the gradient gradually climbing you felt the limiting conditions must suplant the mans will in the making of our way. Then a Moto driver took pity and with a kindly outstretched leg boosted our progress. Cutting across a stream of traffic to arrive with a great sigh at the train station, greatfully filling his hands with the last ofour Ringgits for a job well done.

Thailand seems straight away to be a norebusy and unruly place. Its strange to see women with out headscarves in the majority. Security is very much evident. Indolent soldiers were wandering the platforms lazily fingering the M16s. The train had many armed guards. Every road crossing and station had razor wire around it. The level crossings also gave a glimpse of a large army presence, indicated by trucks full of troops. Bridges had idle guards languising in their hammocks. The governemnt have definatly taken to the sledge hammer to crack a nut theory in dealing with the Muslim seperatists here.

Decided to go out to the island of Kho Tao in the gulf of Thailand for a few days. An island famous for diving. Stepping off the ferry we breached the obligatory cordon of moto taxis when a Thai women approached us denurely showing pictures of her resort. The best sales people sell products that speak for themselves and this was such a time. We set of on the back of a pick-up, with the road gradually getting worse until a steep track taking on the appearence of competing rivulets was to be our road. The resort -when we got there- was an amalgimation of picture post card views of a rich blue sea lapping onto a beach of thoughtless charm. A place where your thoughts evapourate under the idle glare of the sun.

Then it was back on the train to Bangkok; what is in a name. The city of Angels. Bangkok lives and breathes to the feet of its inhabitants. The traveller area -the Kho San- is a mass of stall and food vendors selling everything and nothing. The process of erecting and deconstructing stalls coupled with the bewildering maze of streets-kho- and lanes-roi- makes it an ever changing space quite easy to lose yourself in. Bangkok is good to visit for a day but any more and the solicitng for goods gets quite annoying.

From here we went onto Nakhon Ratchisama on the Isan Plateu North east Thaland. Its second largest city but with nothing of massive interest other than its of the tourist trail and some Angkor period temples. A place with enough local charm to keep you interested. There was also a festival in progress with lots of processions and music and even more dedications to thei unbiquous king.

Next the dive down into Cambodia...... Visit here for all further visits http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog/willdyche/the_grand_tour/tpod.html

Gallery: Same same but different

willd — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 22:35:00 GMT

Bottom to top of Thailand

Gallery: Malaysia

willd — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 15:25:00 GMT

In the Jungle

Malaysia

willd — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 14:37:00 GMT

We left Singapore and caught the train across the causeway and into Penninsula Malaysia. Sliding away from the tall cleaming isle of skyscrapers and into the Malaysian countryside. The train travels through a countryside dominated by Palm olive oil production, miles and miles of it.

Our first stop was Gemas a non descript place, enough off the tourist trail not to have a backpackers but not off it enough for them to guess our reason for staying " you going to jungle place". We were indeed going catch a train the next morning up to Tanah Negara National Park. The first sensation that strikes as you walk out the station is the smell. The source is not quite evident. The semi-open sewers certainly add to the milieu, but don't seem to be the source. The telegraph wires cast a shadow of excretia across the road and provides an enticing clue, but inspection above provides no answer. Leaving the Hotel in search of the fine Malay qusine solved the mystery of the smell. The twilighted sky was loaded with swirling, acrobatic birds seeking a prime spot of perch for the night. Where they go in the day is still the mystery; out into the jungle, just up higher.....

We got of the train in Jerantut after a 4-5 hour train ride from Gemas. From here we went to the jetty to get a boat up to the park. On the East coast of Malaysia the monsoon is in residence so the river was in spate. I was struck as before in Bamgkok by the sheer velocity of these rivers. The water is full of haste and purpose; swirling and eddieing in its massed charge downstream. Anything that falls upon its course is swept along; irresitably joining it in it's frantic journey. Against this flow we had chosen to go.

The boat was of the small thin kind, naturally selcted to make way in these rivers. The logs of Bamboo that floated past looked more than a match for it's flimsy construction. I just hoped are langid pilot had eagle eyes. After three hours we reached Kula Tanah in the heart Malasia's virgin forest.

The highlight of the visit was the jungle walkway. A series of rope bridges strung through the forest canopy. A great way to see the jungle from a new perspective and gets a bit of adrenaline flowing too. Our guide Zam showed us what the various trees were used for aromatic woods, poisonous sap

Singapore Sling

willd — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 14:55:00 GMT

Well I've made it to Singapore; that bastion of capatalsim in the heart of South East Asia. The arrival as ever involved a delay. To keep consistant in these matters no accomodation had been arranged. The picture to be painted can be drawn thus. Arriving late, tired and slightly disorientated - towards the latter stages of the evening - with every hostel you've phoned booked up. Thankfully the night envolved not as much melodrama as it could have potentially lent and we found a hostel.It was in Kampung Glam the ethnically Malay part of Singapore.

Singapore quickly conforms to two preconcieved stereotypes: The first is obviously it clenliness and the second its wealth. It almost as if with one big effort they have swept all the poverty away. The lack of any visible poverty is one of the most striking about Singapore when you compare it to any other large cities. There's not really any homeless or other benchmarks of poverty to be seen anywhere.

The uncluttered nature gives you space to breath and relax; it's efficiency gives you less opportunity to stress. One example is the fantastic MRT (Mass Rapid Transport). Like the London Underground except it works. The train arrives at the sealed platform, exhales some passengers, inhales some more and wisks you off at speed in all it's air conditioned glory to the next destination.

There are many different ethnicities that you can see here. They are mainly Indian, Malay and Chinese. Each with their own enclaves, dress, religions and temples. So i thought I had better get down to trying some of the local cusine. Just outside our hostel is a large local food court. The hardest thing to do is trying to order - in a different language - something of which you are not quite sure. Anyways, I ended up with Fish bellies in a kind of cruel. The next hardest thing in eating is to work out what how all the various bowls you are plied with correspond. "Move this gruel stuff, to this bowl of rice, into this a bowl. ah no I think thats for washing your fingers" and so on. All good fun and beats eating from the plentifull MacDonalds. It was actually quite tasty apart from the latent fish bones

Gallery: Singapore

willd — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 14:44:00 GMT

Live from Lion Island

Gallery: Leaving NZ

willd — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 08:02:00 GMT

The final days of my time in NZ

Leaving NZ

willd — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 07:30:00 GMT

The road goes ever on and on, Down from the door where it began, Now far ahead the road has gone, and I must pursue it with weary feet, untill some larger way, where many paths and errands meet, whither then I cannot say.

The road is life and I'm back on it. It's a great feeling to be travelling again. Denuded of all the clutter that you manage to accumulate; just a backpack and my prattling mind to accompany myself. In accordance with my generous nature i'm even going to share some of this idle prattling, experiences and ancedotes that you can read here on this journal if you so wish.

I'm in Auckland at present after driving up from the Waikato in the centre of the north Island. The day has finally arrived when i don't have to wake up 4:30 in the morning - ahh heaven. Proud of the fact that I managed to drive my car around for 3 months with out a Rego (tax) or WOF (MOT) and not get caught. Sadly this meant my car was worthless. Coming in to the outskirts of Auckland i was weighing up the possible ways to get rid of the car. To leave it at the airport or give it to a scrappies? Deciding the latter was a good bet I went into a shell garage to ask for the nearest one. The guy behind the counter didn't know of one but said he would take it off me. " Just leave the car there and the key in the ignition". "Sweet cuzzie bro" I says in my Kiwi vernacular, problem sorted. Then train in to Auckland to party.

We met some English people recently moved over here who say I now have a Kiwi twang to my accent. Countered by the Kiwis who say it still sounds identifiably English. So my accent is in Limbo hovering somewhere between NZ and England.

I currently have a hangover which will be of no great suprise to you; after saying good bye to NZ party style in Auckland last night. Had a great night chatting to some of the locals after ending up in a unbiquos Irish bar. The only bad side effect is that drink, sleep deprivation from dairy farming and Malaria tablets do not provide the most refreshing cocktail. ughh.

Have to go now to catch the plane to Singapore. See you guys soon.