Hello People?..Mellow Out

Day 68 – Cairnryan to Port Logan – 27^th July – 25 nm

The rain has stopped and the wind has moved southwards. Things are still soggy though, and as we try to leave our pitch I get the van stuck. The warden is unimpressed, he drags us out using his landrover but as we apologise he launches into a tirade of expletives. There’s no answer to that. I guess we won’t be here for a third night then?

As we drive away we joke that the big, grey elephant wanted to indulge in a bit of a mud bath before leaving.

Time is a bit tight with the mud-wrestling delay but we just make the launch time. The SE wind means the top end is thankfully fairly flat and things tick along quite pleasantly. By the time Portpatrick calls though I am working into a stiff headwind, it’s only really for the last few miles but somehow I just run out of steam and crawl into the shelter of Portpatrick harbour. A chilly rain meets me there.

Team Manager arrives too, after a trip into Stranraer to try to get hold of some Irish Sea Maps. Things don’t look too good for an Isle of Man crossing in the near future, a set of fallback maps for going around the outside might be a prudent purchase we reckon. TM says that eyes followed her around Stranraer, the red and white Taran on the roof seemed to draw attention.

I get a bit of a mummy-told-you-so lecture for not eating enough yesterday (don’t hear that often) and am now force fed like a French goose. 2 hrs later it’s time to waddle out into the miserable grey soggy stuff again. Go on, how about a bit of blue for a change?

The wind is blowing pretty strong from the S-SE. It’s going to be a bit of a slog down the coast. Port Logan is the next realistic get out option, and after that it is down to the end. But I'm not sure of how things will be down there so it will be decision time at Port Logan. 

As I leave, TM heads up to buy a newspaper but the welcome is unpleasant and unfriendly. Come on people, she's the nice one in the team. I really don’t know what is going on, but somehow we don’t seem to make a great impression at times.

Anyway, I'm on the water and away. It is a bit of a slog to Port Logan. Across Caringarroch Bay I get a bit of help from an eddy, but the wind blows down the gully fiercely. A mist drops in and the rain comes down so heavily that I can’t see the other end of the short bay. I carry on sneaking down, it’s windy and splashy but the direction means there is no real swell or rebound to worry about. It’s just a hood-up slog.

Eventually I slide into Port Logan. We discuss the forecast for the coming days and realise that an Isle of Man crossing is unlikely to happen, for me at least. So the pressure is off to round the end tonight, not a bad thing I suspect.

We call it a day, it’s a peaceful spot but the wind and rain take the appeal away a little. We briefly consider a night by the beach but a string of locals head down to see what we are up to, so we decide to head off to find a campsite.

We do find one, another one run by the ‘friendly club’, who sting us for £30. It’s a rushed tea as the wind rattles the van and the rain refuses to ease. The eyes of countless rabbits reflect in the torchlight as darkness falls.

We look at the forecast and discuss our options; it looks like it may be the long way around the Irish Sea.

Stuck Again

Day 67 – Cairnryan – 26^th July – 0 nm

Well we had a difference of opinion with the Met Office yesterday afternoon, but they did get it right overnight. It’s wet and windy this morning, the soggy grey sky is low enough to part your hair. We drive over to Portpatrick to take a look. It’s one of those tiring and frustrating sort of days, an unsatisfying faff-day as the TM says.

We rise a little bleary eyed this morning, grandma across the way had a karakoe party last night, they were even singing along to the Shadows towards the end - how do you do that?

Once again it’s a day to drive me mad. The conditions at Portpatrick are borderline, the conditions are neither bad enough to make it a definite no, nor good enough to make it a definite yes. The miserable weather doesn't add a positive feeling to the day either.  Team Manager is still a little shocked after yesterday, how things were so different from the forecast, at a pretty crucial point. She doesn't really feel like encouraging me to get on.

When I look at the conditions outside the harbour at Portpatrick I think it looks possible, possible but not good. If I can’t decide I talk it through to myself, as I would if someone else had asked me for advice. I remind myself that whatever you see from the beach it is 2 or 3 times worse out there. Then I point out that it is 15 nm to PP, 11 nm of rocky coastline to the first beach. Add to the mix that I'm paddling solo and not exactly fresh at the moment and it’s not looking good for a wet spraydeck this morning.

We head up to take a look at Corsewall Point. The lighthouse is nicely situated, but the view is spoilt by the gloomy, low drizzle. The waves are rebounding off the end and the swell coming down the North Channel is riding up onto the rocky shelves.

Nope, not for me today, game over.

We head to Stranraer for a greasy breakfast, amused by the conversation of visitors from the States sitting on an adjoining table. Haggis Suppers and Irn Bru all around and they are not quite sure what to make of it all. A bit like us and the US gun culture.

The weather isn't going to change so we make the call to lose the day. But there’s not much enthusiasm to do anything else in the rain. We sit around and wait for life to improve. 

Bastard

Day 66 – Southend to Cairnryan -  25^h July – 28.1 nm

It’s an early start, but it’s not to paddle; somewhere along the line we have mislaid the map for the other side, we can’t find a chart either. Much as we try we just can’t find them. Yes I could just paddle across, but that’s a bit too simplistic for me. I know these things are easily said, but when you find yourself on a rocky and rough lee coastline trying to remember just where the only get out was, you start to wish you had made a bigger effort to find that map. No map, no go in my book.

But we can’t find it anywhere, so we have to face up to a quick trip into Campbeltown. I can’t see they will have a map for somewhere a few hours drive away, but you never know. No choice really though.

A little more time is lost as we try to find the campsite owner to pay our dues, before we head off.  He seems to be quietly dissociating himself from the place. In daylight the full glory can be seen. The toilet cubicles are narrow enough for shoulders to brush against both walls, while wire grills guard each one. Do toilets get stolen that often? I figured only thin people could possibly ‘break in’ anyway, and looking at the campsite they are in fairly short supply it seems to me. It is also the first campsite we have stayed on where you are allocated an individually numbered cubicle, with its own key, on arrival. Still trying to work that one out...

We return from our flying visit with a chart, but no map. It will have to do.

It’s windy now but forecast to drop, the nearest forecast position gives 10-12 mph winds for the afternoon; add a few mph to the Met Office one to allow for their urban bias and that gives 12-15mph(ish). A handful more for open water too? Not ideal, it’s a long fetch and we just don’t know what’s at the other end. But the Stranraer forecast looks within limits as such. It looks to stay steady throughout the day too, but then to go poor for tomorrow.

We are sheltered here behind the Mull and it’s hard to judge exactly, but finally I decide it’s a go, to take a look at least. As I root around for kit I find a dry bag full of maps, Bastard. The frustration of the time wasted heading to Campbeltown is outweighed by the relief of knowing where I am going now.

Off the beach at lunchtime, a late start with all the faff, but a pleasant paddle through the gaps at Sanda Island, a strange optical illusion of a place that seems to get smaller as you close somehow. I have to dodge a few shallows on the way by and then after the first admin break we are off into the open water.

At 2 hrs and 10 nm I have a second break, it’s a rushed affair, food is scoffed quickly as the chop picks up. There is a N breeze picking up now but things are ok, 10-12 mph they say...

The third break doesn't happen, nor the fourth. The wind strengthens quickly and with it a following W-ish swell comes in. The wind is way above 20mph+ and it’s now lumpy, the waves are starting to break. I am no longer my normal optimistic, easy-going self.

Looking at the distance covered I am just short of half way, even with all the hassle I’m still making good speed, but this hints that the tide is with me. If I turn to head back I will be against wind and tide; that means shorter miles but a longer time to be exposed, and fatigue would take on a greater significance. But it’s still quite a way to go.

Options are looking limited.

Ailsa Craig stands suggestively over to the left, but I guess it’s around 8-9 nm away, with a rocky landing and a possible overnighter to boot. Not ideal.

I stab at the GPS buttons and the nearest downwind option of Ballantrae would save a mile or so, not enough advantage to take on running directly down the swell. Nope, not today.

Now’t left then; aim for Loch Ryan and crack on. Double Bastard.

It takes 3 hrs of bladder-busting, paddle-gripping, stomach-neglecting hanging in there to finish the job. That’s a long time to work hard, to concentrate and not risk a mistake. Thankfully, things ease enough outside the mouth of the Loch, as the water flows in, for me to make a hurried call to the ferry coming out. I'm not sure where he goes next, but he's cool about it and hangs a hard louie, giving me plenty of room, before heading off towards somewhere linked to Guiness I guess.

I sneak the last mile into Finnarts Bay with barely a second to spare before my dry-pants become wet-ones, from the inside.

Jeez, what was all that about? How much more can you get away with? In total it takes just over 5 hrs for the 28 nm, all said that’s not a bad speed but flatter and slower would have been more pleasant, far more pleasant. It always seems to be day on, day off. How about a few easy days, were I can strip down to my thong and clock up a load of boring, mindless, stress-less miles? Go on, just for once. How about it?

The sun is out and I trolley up to the main road to await International Rescue. Kayak seems to be the quicker way to get across to Stranraer apparently, but I think I would have opted for a tedious drive if I had known.

I watch the day tripping crowd head home for tea on the busy highway. Wondering where they have been. I sit and admire the view as I eat my way through the neglected chocolate stash, and slowly dry out in the sunshine.

Jeez...what a day.

The Joy of Camping

As we made our way around the coastline we noticed wherever we went there would always be camper van or two parked nearby. In remote car parks, picnic areas, quiet harbours and viewing points we would find a scattering of big white vans.

Somewhere someone had obviously written a guide of where to go; they turned up in the most unlikely, but practical places. Many bore European number plates.

Early on we thought all this a little rude. There were plenty of campsites around. Should these people not be herded into purpose built spots and keep the rest of the countryside tidy? They would support local businesses on the way of course.

But somewhere along the way our attitude started to change a little, campsite standards varied greatly and not always in a good way. We paid between £7 and £30 per night, and as a general rule anything of more than £20 was usually a little suspect. Of course the less you paid, the less you would expect, but facilities and cost were often out of kilter.

Paying £20+ and then having to find a handful of coins for the shower was a regular occurrence. For a late arrival, after the reception had closed, this could be a real pain in the bum. Just add a pound to the fee for heaven’s sake and dispense of the coins. It’s less hassle for all and you are not going to lose out unless everybody takes 6 showers a day.

The daily campsite budget grew to a not insignificant amount of money. We found ourselves on campsites with no hot water, no lighting, no toilet paper, wire grills over the tops of cubicle doors to prevent toe-rags nicking your clothes while you showered, we stayed close enough to railways lines that the van shook as the train passed, and listened to midnight karaoke and drunken three-in-the-morning music.  Cost and expectations were often out of kilter. It was definitely an up and down ride. 

And if you really want to get a feel for the worst of British Society then a long-term camping trip will most definitely give you that, and more. Eventually you start to despair you live on the same planet.

So after a while we started to wonder just what we were paying that £20 for? Now we could start to see why so many chose to go al fresco as such.

But then going wild had moments too. We awoke to find the boy racers of Borth had come within a few feet of wrecking the van and on the Wirral we counted ourselves lucky to survive the night unscathed.

But it wasn't all bad of course.  We had many a friendly welcome. There was the peaceful bank-holiday site hidden in the mist near Bude. The friendly campsite at Scourie was a magical place, facilities, view and atmosphere couldn't be faulted.

The site at Shingle Street was memorable for the impressive facilities and pride of the owners. It was almost too tidy.

While the fishing ponds site at Mablethorpe was a truly magical, relaxing place where we had a very friendly welcome. Scattered around too were plenty of basic but friendly and peaceful farmyard sites, I won’t forget listening to the piggies snoring down at the Lizard or watching the moon over the hills at Drigg. And of course, the first and last day were spent at Trefalen Farm, a special spot - basic but knowingly welcoming. The man had a background somewhere on the way.

No it wasn't all bad, but probably the best sleep we had was in the lay-by on the A83.