Can't Win

Day 80 – Borth to New Quay – 8^th Aug – 21.4 nm

The police came by at 10:30 pm. We were parked by a ‘No Camping’ sign but they didn't seem fussed and left us to it. We took that as tacit approval and I set the alarm to check the height of the tide in the early hours, then we slipped towards the land of slumber. It looked like a pleasant spot to get a good night’s sleep.

The first little-willy car arrived just after 11:00; the beach became a race track, roaring around – drifting and donuts. More came, some went, but they roared all through the night. We had intruded on their playground and they had a point to prove. They were so close to the van that, in the morning, we found the sides spattered with sand from the spinning wheels as they went by. When the final alarm chimed, sleep had been just over an hour long.

As we roll back into Borth, life is slow and clumsy. Minds are confused and hands are uncoordinated. It doesn't feel like the start of a new day, more like the continuation of the last one. 07:30 on the water to catch a few hours of morning ebb again. The weather is good, there is a touch of an off-shore breeze but that is all, no swell or chop today.

As the sun comes up the land breeze and the sea breeze start to contest the territory and I reap the benefits, it goes calm and steady, stress-free progress is made southward.

Today’s routeing is a straight-line to Aberaeron, we’ll make a decision there. The book says I should get tide behind me until lunchtime. The route keeps me a little way off-shore, so there’s not a great deal of detail to see but the smooth conditions allow for plenty of the Ceredigion scenery to be absorbed.

Team Manager has parked up in Llanrhystud and is walking back along the cliffs, watching the Red Kites as she goes. I'm a mile or two off-shore here so I don’t spot the mad stalker waving at me, but it is so calm that she can spot the Taran out in the bay, at the point of the V-wave.

Once again the book is an hour or so out and I start to run out of tide. I'm struggling to stay awake and feeling rather rough anyway, so I land on the rocky beach at Aberaeron and we meet up in yet another car-park. It's a good kit-drying day, windscreen-dried clothes rapidly make the completely-dry-crusty'n'salty stage. The sun is out, it’s pretty warm and I soon doze off into mouth-drooling oblivion.

It’s another 4 hour mid-day wait, but as the tide turns the wind arrives. No great surprise, this looks like the 3 o’clock wind to me. The forecast is for a strengthening breeze later too. Still sleepy, so motivation is hard to find, but the job has to be done, reluctantly the boat is hauled down to the water.

 

As I head out and pass the harbour, it starts to dawn that this might be a little more than a breeze. Things quickly progress to splashy, then bouncy and into lumpy. It’s hard going into the wind now and after an hour I sneak into the shelter of New Quay Bay. Take a breather here and then I paddle around to the other side of the harbour, to watch the wind over tide waves rolling in by the headland. I'm getting the feeling that we might not progress much further today.

A dolphin-watching boat is heading out of the harbour; they disappear in a teeth-rattling way around the headland, the boat riding heavily up and over the waves. I'm just going to paddle to the corner to take a look when they swiftly re-appear – no dolphins then? Strange that.

I think it has been pointed out to the boat driver that the folks at the back aren't really enjoying themselves any more. He’s not daft though, a slow lap in the shelter of the bay negates the need for a refund.

No, we’re done too. No more today.

It’s an August Saturday evening and everyone is making up for the poor weather recently, the place is heaving and no-body is in a hurry to go home. TM arrives in a rather stressed state, van-sized parking spaces are rare in New Quay it seems. We walk up the hill and look for food.

 As we head further south I am starting to broaden my cosmopolitan culinary horizons, we splash out on a pizza.

Borth

Day 79 – Aberdaron to Borth – 7^th Aug – 35.9 nm

Not far to travel today to get to the water, just down the hill; but still it’s an early start to catch the tide again – sliding off the sand for 07:00

We couldn't get an updated forecast last night, but the conditions look ok. There is only a gentle breeze, the blue sky is scattered with cumulus and it looks like a pleasant day lies ahead.

Away from Aberdaron beach and left turn, instead of the usual right, to head out of the bay. It’s not upsetting to have Bardsey Sound falling behind.  There is not much of the tide left now, so the plan is to head around the corner to Abersoch and wait there for the ebb to return once again, later in the day. Porth Ceiriad would be the more convenient option paddling-wise, saving 3 or 4 miles, but it would mean staying on the beach all day or abandoning the boat to climb up the cliffs up to the car park. We choose Abersoch instead.

There’s a tiny chop as I round the headland that stops Hell’s Mouth falling off the Lleyn, but turning N towards St Tudwal’s Road things grow oily-smooth, the headland taking the energy out of the breeze. The sun joins the party too, flexing its muscles, ready for later on.

The low water landing makes for a Taran trolley ride to get off the flat beach. TM has already arrived, and has a smile on her face. The sun is out, she’s finally been freed from the van, and takes the chance to take a look around Abersoch. She is now wandering around here, barefoot and happy in the warm shallows.

Sneakily, she has even taken a prime piece of car-park real estate on the water’s edge. Even more appealing is that she arrived before the warden had shaken off his slumber. He grudgingly, but generously, tells her she doesn't have to pay as she beat him down to the beach. It’s a small but pleasing victory in the never-ending car-park wars.

It is a pleasant spot, but I get a feeling the peace can’t last, it’s going to be a sunny day in the August school holidays after all. We wait for the madness to rise.

There’s nothing much to do for me, plans are checked and timings worked out for the coming days. Kit is dried in the sunshine and Aberdaron cake is eaten. It’s pleasantly relaxing.

But the car park is starting to get busy – it goes from crowded, to chaotic and then to carnivorous as it becomes every driver for themselves. They fight for any last space, it doesn't matter where as long as it’s close to the sand. Eventually the rulebook goes out of the window - cars are abandoned wherever, stupidity and self-interest go hand in hand. Things grow heated now and then. Early leavers return to their trapped cars, gesticulating and wishing doom and gloom to be spread liberally on the inconsiderate. It’s entertaining, but not quite as relaxing any more.

This corner of the beach is crowded. Bikinis, beer, bald headed blokes and tattoos abound. But for such a busy place there is still a relaxed and friendly vibe. A group of kids are practising their civil engineering skills where the stream comes out. It reminds me of my childhood, I want to grab a spade and join in, but figure it may raise a few eyebrows.

Like a woolly-jumper on a boil wash the beach shrinks, and the crowd density increases. I have to apologise as I weave the big pink boat through barbecues and wind-breaks. It’s a flat-calm launch and then out of the bay, keeping a slightly nervous eye on speed boats and jet-skis.

Inside the Tudwal Islands it is hectic; speed boats drag kids on wide-arcing inflatables, boorish jet-skis buzz closely by, while a dinghy race enters into the mix too. There seem to be boats everywhere, but as I move further out the traffic steadily thins until I'm finally back into peace-and-quiet world.

Clearing the Tudwals also brings the 3 o'clock wind. Life chops up a bit, but the sun is still out and things could be worse, it’s not from the front at least. No swell, no headlands, no tideraces – just 18 nm of steady open water to Tywyn on the other side. There’s not much more to do than get into a routine and paddle on. 

The water goes a little squirrelly as I cross over the far-offshore shallows of the Sarn Badrig, a shallow shingle spit that fingers miles out into the north end of Cardigan Bay. But even this is half-hearted on this warm and lazy day, the chop is only slight. More paddling.

Tywyn finally draws level, I’m struggling a little but there’s enough left in the tank to cross the River Dovey to Borth. Team Manager is taking a look around Tywyn, remembering previous visits. There’s a quick call to breaks the news that she now has to drive around, the reply isn't enthusiastic.

It gets a bit bouncy at the mouth of the Dovey, as the river empties across the shallows. It breaks up the monotony in a fun-but-don’t-screw-it-all-up-now sort of way.

From the water the beach at Borth is long and feature-less, the village is hidden by a high sea-thwarting bank. There’s a little nav confusion within the team, both parties explain the obvious to the mis-understanding other, but eventually we link up and the day is done. It’s a welcome easy landing with the sun setting over the shoulder.

Thankfully the chip shop is still open, the paddling day is nicely rounded off with pie and chips on top of the wall. We watch the soft glow on the horizon as the sun finally slips away. The prom is a curious place; the high wall prevents any view of the sea from the road. Even if the wall was magically removed you probably couldn't see the view anyway, it lies behind an endless row of camper vans, parked along the side of the road, setting up for the night or cueing for the public conveniences. They prepare to slumber in a curious place, on the roadside, a few metres across from the houses.

We soon can see why, the campsite is no more. We decide not to impede the householders view any more than already is and head up to the N end of town, to make a sneaky camp by the pleasant sands that lie there.

Mistake.

The Lleyn

Day 78 – Dinas Dinlle to Aberdaron – 6^th Aug – 29.5 nm

I think it is a warm front but I'm not really sure. Sat in the van, looking out over the water and into the grey murk, the visibility is less than ½ mile, the rain is rattling off the roof. I’ve been trying to work out what sort of weather to expect after the front but I can’t think. My head feels full of cotton wool, I guess I'm tired.

Fatigue gets you in so many ways and motivation is one of them. I need to be getting on with the day but can’t get too excited about things. It’s cold, wet and windy out there – the van is warm and dry – not a good combination. But like numerous previous beaches, I'm not ready to go, there’s no real reason, it just doesn't feel right. TM finds this a little frustrating once again, time is wasting as I faff and stall.

The forecast is for the weather to blow through, though that’s hard to believe at the moment. Then it’ll be breezy for a while, but settling, with the tide, late in the day.

Irrespective of what kind of front it is, it does finally move on and it is time to paddle once again. After the hanging around I now become impatient and rush to get on. We hurriedly run through the check list before the boat leaves the beach.

There are blue skies ahead, but it is still breezy, from the NW, and quite lumpy. For the early part of the day it’s not going to be a relaxed paddle. As I move further out I find that there’s swell coming from two directions, a 4-6ft on the bow and a 2-4ft coming from the right hand side – one from what was and one from what will be. It’s difficult going, the boat wallows around and it’s hard to keep the rhythm going.

In the rush to leave the beach there wasa hurried complacency and didn't really finalise a plan. There’s a misunderstanding as TM mentions that she is going to head to Nefyn and meet me there. I am uneasy about this, inside I know that Trefor should be the first option, but I feel under a little pressure to stop farting around and get on with the job. On days like this I’m not sure of what conditions to expect and I like to progress along while ticking off the options.

But now as I start to move along the cliffs the confused swell starts to meet the rebound and things become unpleasant. I can’t get in touch with TM so I keep on towards Nefyn. It doesn't get any easier and before long it’s too lumpy to eat or pee, or even scratch my nose. It tales a while but eventually I get close enough to get a little shelter from the headland at Port Dinllaen and rush to take an urgent bladder evacuation. Not long after it’s a busy landing at Nefyn where speed boats and jet-skis abound. The clock shows 3 ½ hrs since the start.

The sun is out now and the August holiday makers are everywhere. The Taran is trolleyed up the hill and we sit in another 4 quid car-park while we admire the view. It’s a very nice view, the rain has cleansed the air, it is a bright day now and the hills are displayed in their glory, Anglesey lies in the distance.

It’s also time to discuss the morning’s happenings.

We are both tired. TM was a little complacent, a little too confident in my abilities. She assumed that Nefyn was an easy target, unconsciously putting pressure on. I was too soft, too keen to go with the flow; I should have said that I was not comfortable with this. The buck has to stop with the boat driver.

But the biggest mistake was that I should have landed. Without comms I felt I needed to make Nefyn, or things would have got complicated, and time consuming. But complicated safe is better than dodgy easy. If I wasn't happy then I should have made the landing and sorted things out from there. I have to take the decision, and the responsibility, no-one else can. From me it’s another case of push-onitis, not good. We talked of complacency only during the last day or two, and then fall straight into the trap. The Fat Lady ain't on the stage yet.

Four sunny hours slip by, the warmth is welcome and the view relaxing, but of course, soon it is time to leave once again. We trolley the boat down the hill to the busy beach. A couple of posh-lads get rather impatient behind as they want to get their tractor and boat trailer down the narrow lane quicker. They are not too impressed to be held up by a bloke with a pink canoe on a silly little trailer, comments and gesticulations follow.

A minute later the tractor is stuck in the sand, Team Fatboy discusses the benefit of differential lock and smile wryly while the Taran is packed.

It was nice to have a break but it’s also nice to leave the hustle and bustle of the pre-teatime boat landings, rounding the headland soon delivers Taran and me back to the peace and quiet of open water.

Originally the hope was to transit Bardsey Sound close to high water slack, but that’s not going to happen today. We needed to make Porth Oer before the tide changed to manage that. So now I'm hoping to take the ebb down the coast to P.O. and then make a suck-it-and-see decision there. I'm rather conscious of the Bardsey Sound tide races, eddies and today’s swell.

Initially it’s I'm-not-going-around-the-end-in-this breezy, but as the end of Lleyn draws closer the breeze starts to fade, the swell has dropped away too. The sun is still out and it starts to become quite enjoyable.

A headland is silhouetted by the sunshine, still so many miles away. Then a giant and his mammoth dog appear on the end, I chuckle as a trick of the light and brain suddenly mean they are only a minute away.

The water is interesting beyond Penrhyn Mawr (of course) and around the islet of Maen Mellt. The eddy line is impressive, and along with the races, it encourages me to alter my line for a discretion-is-the-better-part-of-valour sort of route.

But things have settled now and the flow is helping nicely, the GPS smiles a 6 kts + figure. The lack of swell and wind tempts to give the Sound a go. Team Manager has made it to the end too and stands on the hill watching things develop. She calls to give me an idea of what to expect in the tiderace at Braich y Pwll. Unfortunately it seems that the added height of her viewpoint takes the edge of things. What she sees and what I soon experience are, rather different.

I stay out as long as I can to miss the most of it, but eventually I realise that I'm going through it like it or not, there’s not a great deal of choice in the matter. It’s lumpy and confused - one of those sort of paddling through it rather than over it moments. Then we’re through. Relieved...

I meet a yacht, using the eddy to go the opposite way. As the water quickly calms I turn to watch his progress, keen to see the outcome. But I'm rather dismayed as it all now looks smooth and calm, but then there’s a rather abrupt ‘manoeuvre’ as he crosses the eddyline – yep, that’s the one, bet that rattled the crockery a touch.

Aberdaron Bay always takes forever to cross and tonight is no different, to give a mildly Russian Roulette landing amongst the hidden boulders – a smiling reminder of Durness so long ago. We decide to eat out but are too late to catch any food in the village and so it is a glamorous car-park boil-in-the-bag for dinner. Another romantic night out for the Team Manager.

The campsite is small and peaceful, just up the hill. It’s a pleasant, relaxed spot, but it doesn't get deserved justice, as it fades into just another late finish.

Pie-Power

Day 77 – Llandudno to Dinas Dinlle – 5^th Aug – 28.5 nm

A day off is just enough to remind you of what aches, and where.

We head back over towards Llandudno to carry on the adventure. Driving along the coastal road we have the bonus of seeing the conditions out in Conwy Bay, to the W of the Great Orme. There’s a S breeze blowing over the top of the hills but there is not much more than a mild chop out there. The strong winds yesterday have left the water murky, but there is a distinct lack of whitecaps and I'm not too upset about that.

However it’s not all goodness and light. The forecast shows the 3 o'clock wind coming in, with some showers coming along for the ride too. It makes me think of previous Scottish squalls.

The tidal planning is a little complicated here; trying to match the ebb of the Great Orme to the flood of the E end of the Menai Straits is not that easy. So I decide to go a little early and paddle against the tide for a bit. The offshore S wind is welcome and means it will be calm and I should be able to sneak in pretty close to the Orme cliffs, using the eddies to work against the flow. Then around the end of the Orme it will just become a slog across the bay towards Beaumaris. But as we are still on big springs I shouldn’t have to worry about threading my way through the sandbanks, if I'm not too late.

There are plenty of places to land once the Straits are reached, so the plan is to find somewhere to sit and wait for the tide to catch-up. If I can make it to somewhere around Beaumaris or Bangor Pier for the first stint then that should make things a little more productive for the second one.

It’s not yet 7 am, but the Taran is off the stony beach and away. There are plans afoot to remove these imported stones and return the beach to its pre-meddled, sandy glory. I wonder what it will look like if they do.

But there’s paddling to be done now; time for one last glance over my shoulder towards Llandudno and then it's around the corner and into the suddenly-new world of the towering Great Orme cliffs. The goats are strutting their vertigo oblivious stuff, while there are ominous signs of new landslides along the way.

The eddy hopping plan works fine and I get my first view of Puffin Island for a while. Now it’s just time to slog, with ear flaps down to stop the windy wing-spray from flying down the ear canal.

The Snowdonia hills welcome me back, making a pleasant back-drop to the paddle. But by the time I get to Fryars Road the 4kt progress is becoming a little tedious. Eventually Beaumaris Pier slides past and the first shift ends, not long after, at Gallows Point.

Team Manager soon arrives with a welcome opportunity for a sneaky bit of van-based shelter, while we wait for the tide. But even better, TM has been to stock up on pies! Now show me a good pie, or even a sausage roll at a pinch, and my Northern roots will glide smoothly to the surface. There isn't the time here to discuss the nutritional merits or details of pie-powered paddling, but suffice to say that I've partaken in more than a few of said crusty-clad items on my way around. I have become more expert, perhaps even a connoisseur. But out of all that variety it has to be said that there was nowhere else on the UK coastline that could match the pies from the butchers in Menai Bridge. All hail to the folks at John Swain Williams, the king and queens of pies! Deserving of a true accolade.

Anyway, it’s time to set off once again, now with pie-power levels restored. First it’s over the bubble to the Bangor Pier and then straight towards the Telford Bridge, hanging in the distance. I take a quick breather at the Menai Bridge slipway and then head into the comfortable familiarity of the Swellies. The GPS shows pleasing figures while the Cardinal, Gored Goch and Brittania Bridge all slip easily by. Nelson gives a wink and then it’s on towards Felenheli.

Around the corner, down beyond Plas Newydd, the wind plays a part once again. Ali has a group of new sea paddlers out for a trip, and stops to say hello. It’s quite big and bouncy in the wind over tide here but they take it in their stride. Soon we part ways and they head across towards the village, while I turn towards Caernarfon.

It’s a bit of a splashy tramp down towards Caernarfon. The wider, lower ground here allows the wind to have its fun. But eventually I reach the confused water before Abermenai and then shoot out through the gap, nervous of just what lies out there.

The wind is strong now and there is plenty of white stuff out on the shallows of Cearnarfon Bar. But I'm heading south from here and hoping to take advantage of a trouble-avoiding, close-in route that I used in reverse here 3 years previously. When I poke my head around the corner the wind hits like an elephant in a pillow fight, a grey wall of heavy rain is heading up the beach. I sneak back into an eddy behind the steep shingle and take a breather.

The rain turns to hail, the gusts arrive and the hills disappear, followed quickly by Newborough beach.  After a few minutes things settle and I look around the corner again. Another wall of grey has smothered Dinas Dinlle and is swiftly heading this way, I sit this one out too. Finally there is a gap and I can see down the coast, time to put the head down and paddle.

By the time the groynes of Dinas Dinlle are reached I’ve been battered a few more times and it’s really hoofing it down now. While it’s only 6 more miles to Trefor, I’ve had enough. I look for a gap in the surf and head in.

The car park has a good collection of steamed-up cars holding summer holiday visitors; it’s not really a bucket and spade sort of day. A paddler from the Midlands comes over for a chat, wanting to know more about the Taran. But soon his family tire of the wait and drag him away, to places warmer and drier.

TM is stuck in a traffic jam it seems. I busy myself tidying the boat and clearing the deck, ready for another night back at the house. Waiting once again to be rescued.

Flying Visit

Day 76 – Llandudno – 4^th Aug – 0 nm

It is windy, but dry and fairly warm. A cold and wet day would make the decision easier to make. I gaze out of the window, watching the trees bow to the wind. I'm tired.

We worked hard to get close to home before the weather arrived, but now we are here we have to beware that we don’t get too comfortable. At the same time we mustn't take things for granted.

The water here is familiar - the flows, the eddies, the shallows and the windy gaps, the chop and the smooth. This is our home territory, but still we must take it seriously. The fat lass has entered the dressing room, but she’s not quite got to warming up her voice yet. There’s still plenty of opportunity to cock it all up. Plenty.

The Team Manager writes in her diary:

‘From here to the end I will have a little voice in my head “Be careful, very careful”. You only finish once you cross the line, until then the sea is as dangerous as ever. Concentration and care are needed.’

For me it’s a daily struggle between confidence and complacency, I just need to hold it all together until the final beach.

To move on from Llandudno we need to round the exposed cliffs of the Great Orme and then make a short crossing to Puffin Island, before reaching the shelter of the Menai Straits. On paper, and in comparison, it’s not that much of a trip, but then it doesn't take much of one. Because I know this one well I'm even more cautious than usual. It’s no time for complacency, you can still be humbled close to home. I don't want to be another summit descending casualty.

And so I look out of the window once again, still the trees are bending in the wind. Reluctantly I make the call, it’s a no-go today.

But there’s still plenty to do.

We arrived home last evening to find a small mountain of mail behind the door, it was 70 odd days since we last turned the key. The mail is roughly sorted and piled onto the kitchen table where it is given a damn good ignoring.

For me the daily matters that the stack of envelopes signify don’t even register, just pointless froth. Life seems to go on well enough without them, indeed it seems to contain enough stress and drama without, so why bother? Ignore once again.

Opportunistic laundry is done and kit sorted and checked. It’s a luxury to have a bit of space, and a table, to plan on. I make hay and soon maps and charts are strewn wildly. Get ahead while we can.

Team Manager wanders around, surveying the changes to our domain. The grass in the back garden has grown somewhat, I warn of tigers as she ventures out to take a look.

But today it’s not a home, it’s just another accommodation, one of so many. As soon as the weather moves through we’ll be off once again.

Yet again.

Slogsville

Day 75 – Leasowe to Llandudno – 3rdAug – 29.7 nm

There are a number of 8m+ drying heights lying around on the chart. Even though it was a big 10.0m spring tide last night, if we set off too early today we are likely to end up walking across to Wales.

It is blowing a hooley plus today, from the WSW. Going out around the edge of the sandbanks isn't a realistic option. But then going across the Dee doesn't look such a good one either. I need to time the mouth of the Dee for high water; it’s not a day to be farting around in any shallows.

To complicate things, the sea defences here are an endless stretch of sloping concrete. Too early a departure and it will be the game of hunt-the-deep-bit across to Hoylake, too late and it will be a boat grinding comedy launch.  Just another day.

Ah yes, the wind. Yesterday I paddled from Blackpool to the Wirral, all day head-on into a S wind. Today I hang-a-reggie towards Anglesey and right on cue the wind goes W, you just can’t make it up.

So, it’s going to be an options day. We’ll take whatever miles we can, with an eye on the landing options as we go. The first option will be Hoylake, all of 3 nm down the coast. It would set the record for the shortest day of the trip if nothing else. If it wasn't for the wind, a long day today could even mean a welcome return visit to home, after 70+ days away.

Even though the tide doesn't demand an early start, we awake early as the car park steadily fills with dog walkers and the return of the cockle pickers.

I remind Team Manager that we need to keep an eye on the tide so we don’t run out of launch sand. Of course I finally peek over the wall and realise we are going to do exactly that. A frantic prep and then a fast trolley ½ a mile along the wall looking for any last remaining sand. We find a small piece behind a groyne and it’s off and away. Van life has finally got too much for Team Manager, she’s on her bike and off towards Hoylake, muttering about needing a break or something.

Turn left and re-paddle the stretch we just walked and then on towards Hoylake, working hard against the wind.  As I move along the coast the water grows shallower and shallower. By the time I close on Hoylake I'm threading through surfy shallows, looking for gaps and trying to avoid the worst of things.

Finally the the white stuff thins out as the water deepens, but as I round Hilbre Point the full force of the wind makes itself known. I'm not going straight across the Dee from here, in that - so I turn instead towards Hilbre, looking to take a little shelter from the islands. I've been meaning to paddle here for years, but somehow I didn't quite expect it to be like this.

The island doesn’t take much wind away, but it does take the edge off the sea. Even so things are splashy and the boat is slamming over the waves. I guess I've been spotted as a lifeguard jet-ski heads out to see what is going on. He makes a couple of laps and then heads off, back towards West Kirby. I hide behind Big Hilbre, taking a breather.

Nice as it is here, we are not getting any closer to home, so I stick the bow though the gap and head towards Wales. The wind is blade grabbingly brutal, the boat thumps over the waves, a face full of spray accompanying each ride. I have to keep the boat directly into wind, even slight heading off and control becomes mildly tenuous, so I point into wind and wait to see where Taran and me end up.

Half way across and the last of the North West’s poo sticks is spotted. I’m impressed; this one is less of a stick and more of a true ‘log’. I marvel at how such a thing manages to exist all the way out here in these conditions. I wonder once again of the diet involved and make sure that I close my mouth as the spray comes over the deck.

It’s hard work going across the appropriately named Wild Road and then I finally slide onto the beach for a slightly shell-shocked breather. It’s time for lunch.

It’s such contrast here, the sun is out and the off-shore wind means things are flat close in. The beach is thronged with visitors from the nearby caravan parks. Bikini’s are out and people are in the water - it seems slightly surreal to me after the last hour.

The high water means there is a route inside of the Point of Ayr lighthouse, and then it’s off towards Prestatyn. It’s still blowing strong, along the beach but also slightly off-shore. Today wouldn’t have happened if it had been any more northerly.

 At Prestatyn I watch a couple of lads messing around in a blow-up dinghy. They are trying to paddle in but getting nowhere against the wind, then the boat flips in the surf. One of them can’t get back in. I head in closer but a friend on a sit-on-top arrives and they sort things. What-could-possibly-go-wrong?

Rhyl comes and goes, as it should.

It’s a bit bouncy off the River Clwyd and then a real slog as the coast and I turn straight into wind once again. Kinmel Bay creeps by agonisingly slowly, but then I start to gain a little shelter from the high ground beyond Abergele and take the luxury of going straight across, for the Porth Eirias Centre at Colwyn Bay.

It’s been a 6 ½ hr 25 nm slog and I’m knackered, it’s time to call it day. But Team Manager reports a forecast for bad weather looming so we decide that I should paddle until my arms drop off – or Llandudno – whichever comes first.

Llandudno it is.

The stretch from Rhos Point to Little Orme is surprisingly confused and I'm glad to gain the shelter of the Little Orme. Nearly home now. Around the corner and into Llandudno Bay, this stretch always seems to take forever, but eventually the boat slides to a halt. The adventurous day finishes in the ATS car-park. More glamour.

It has been a long day. But we are now back in Welsh Wales, there is light at the end of the tunnel. We discuss the way the technical paddling level has evolved as the trip has progressed. I wouldn't have managed, nor attempted, a day like today early in the trip. It's not really a conscious choice, things have just moved on.

Best of all we can drive home and sleep in a bed tonight.

Water, Water, Everywhere...except here

Day 74 – Bispham to Leasowe – 2^nd Aug – 26.9 nm

It’s a Sunday and a spring tide. The tide won’t be running in my favour for a while but we need to start early, if we don’t I'm guessing we’ll run out of sand. Blackpool’s extensive selection of concrete sea defences makes for an inhospitable place at high water.

I’m also expecting a Sunday morning spring will bring out the worm danglers, the crystal ball hints at a tricky compromise between staying in close to avoid the flow and dodging the fishing lines.

I get changed conspicuously in front of the bank with the world’s busiest cash-machine and then quickly trolley down the concrete ramp. As feared the sand is disappearing quickly. I wade across a narrow channel of moving water and place the boat on the final remaining patch. By the time I am sat in and the deck is going on the Taran lifts off the bottom, just in time. We turn S and start the day.

There’s a stiff S headwind from the start, combined with the tide against and it’s going to be a sub 4 kt slog for a while. The plan is to clear the concrete of Blackpool and then sit things out for a while on the beach S of the town, until things are ready to time for slack water across the Ribble Estuary.

I try to stay in close to gain whatever shelter there is from the wind and tide, but straight away a line is cast across my bow and fouls the rudder. The anticipated abuse follows quickly from up on the wall. They have a colourful, though rather limited, grasp of the English language and seem very keen to share it with me. I can’t clear the line and I see movement as they start to run along the wall, hurling more abuse and threats. Sigh. Come on you fat twit - I can keep this up all day – I know you can’t.

I move further out but have to endure the wind and tide more. It’s going to be a shitty start to the day, the scene is set – suffer the morons or suffer the wind. Oh yeah, it’s all glamour in this game.

Later as I draw level with the Airport, I clear the concrete and sand is once again a welcome sight. The conditions settle as the rebound from the walls is no more. Likewise the moron abuse has faded, they are too lazy to walk out onto the beach here.

There are civil engineering works going on, a couple of diggers are marooned precariously on a small man-made island a few metres offshore. They still have a way to go yet though, the calmer conditions don't help with the poo mitigation schemes, there are still plenty of floaters playing the tide. Just what do they eat here?

I've only been on the water for 1 ½ hrs but already I'm knackered and fed-up.  I land and change into dryer clothes, trying to stay warm in the wind. I'm sure I read somewhere that it is August now.

Just over an hour and it’s time to go again. I'm keen to reach the mouth of the Ribble at slack, it’s a shallow place, with training walls and shoals, I’d rather contend with as little wind-over-tide as I can. But the crossing is rather uneventful and I continue S towards Formby.

My mind drifts back to the previous autumn when I paddled up the Ribble. I was paddling a trip from North Wales to the family home, just 15 miles from here. The route went along the coast, up the Ribble and then along the Lancaster Canal. Other than a few minutes of trolleying at either end it was a 3 day, door to door paddle. I returned to the start by bicycle – which also took 3 days. Hopefully I won’t be camping on Formby beach this time though.

3 hours after getting on the water again and I am struggling once more, I have to come in to land at Formby for a break after all. I am too buggered to even trolley the boat up the beach and so I sit marooned on a camping mat, trying to stay dry on the soggy sand, while rather comically changing into more dry clothing. Sometimes you just have to accept that you are making things difficult for yourself. On the upside, Team Manager has ventured out to meet me, it's nice to have a little company. TM was keen to see Formby Beach, less keen to pay more extortionate car parking charges. Good ol' great britain. 

Then of course, it is time to get on once more. The spring tide is rapidly dropping, more and more sand is being revealed. No matter how much I try to ignore the fact, the later the restart the trickier things will likely get later. There’s still the shallow S end of Formby beach to contend with and the Queens (Mersey) Channel to cross. Got to go.

I sneak through the shallows of Mad Wharf Sands but can’t be arsed to paddle all the way around the end of Taylors Bank. I pay for my laziness as I route up a dead end channel and run out of water. Bollocks. 

The chart shows that it’s going to be a couple of miles of farting around in the shallows to try to find a way out, I can’t be bothered with that. The quickly dropping water soon means I can't paddle out anyway. I took my chance...and blew it. I can see the training wall on the edge of the channel a few hundred metres away. There’s nothing for it but to get out and drag the boat across the sandbank. Bollocks once more.

As I'm about to go a pilot boat and freighter appear on their way out of Liverpool. I'm conscious that a lone figure wandering around on the sandbanks a couple of miles offshore may cause a coastguard based stir, so I sit tight, waiting until the boats pass. I try my best to look invisible. It’s a nervous couple of minutes, the tide is dropping quickly and the training wall is showing more and more of its jagged edge. If it drops too far I’m really going to be stuck.

Finally the boats go by and I'm out and across that sand like Usain Bolt. Well, that is, like a short, stumpy, middle aged Usain Bolt, clad in Gore-Tex, dragging a kayak, across an uneven sandbank, trying to look inconspicuous and who was never that fast at running anyway. I hope there is no well meaning binocular-jockey, with the coastguard on speed dial, watching from the shore for just such an occasion.

Another boat is now heading out of Liverpool; frantically I fit the deck, scrape over the training wall and start to paddle quickly across the channel. The fun isn't over yet though, the training wall on the far side is poking through now and I have to look for a deeper spot, taking my chance on a small rapid that seems to give the best option.

Jeez, what a day. Well all I've got to do now is slog against the wind for a while. It’s obvious I'm going to run out of water, and so to limit the impending walk I head straight for Leasowe. This should give me water for as long as possible.

Even so it’s over a mile of a trolley across the rippled sand to finally make the shore, the final climb over the sea wall is by torchlight. There’s a little confusion as a couple of guys walk out to meet me. Initially I have slight sinking feeling, is there another ‘foolhardy’ lecture to follow? But their uniforms are a little eclectic and it turns out they are cockle gang-masters who have mistaken me for their Chinese workers out on the sands.

We brave the boy-racers of the Wirral and sleep in the car-park.