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.

Morecambe Bay Poo Sticks

Day 73 – Roa Island to Bispham – 1^st Aug – 16.2 nm

Morecambe Bay is a fascinating place. It is an extensive area of drying mudflats and sands, split between Cumbria and Lancashire. The Bay has often been linked with tragedy; casualties and misfortune make up a good part of its history. The expanse of flat sands lure the unwary; the area is scattered liberally with quicksand and hidden channels, while the tide comes in at running pace in many places. Tidal bores run up three of the rivers that feed the bay. It is not often a forgiving place.

I played on the beaches there as a child, and later other adventures oft took me back to the Bay, runs from one side to the other and many bores were surfed. But until today I've never paddled across. It’s about time.

Last night’s campsite was another fun place to be. We watched as the feral kids tried to kick the fire alarms off the wall. Once they grew bored of that they moved to less energetic targets, working their destructive way along the bike rack. In the snooker room the dad’s drew the blinds when they saw what was happening outside the window. The wind blew all night, shaking the van.

We know there is no hurry to get to the beach, but then the campsite isn't the most fun place to be, so up and away to take a look over the back of Walney Island.  We are met by a wet and windy, white-capped vista.

We head down to Roa Island anyway, where it is blowing a hooley. It’s hard to judge the conditions out in the Bay, open water is 2 or 3 miles away. The binoculars tell a tale but can only help up to a point. But I can see a distant buoy rolling with the waves; I get the idea, no paddling for a while.

We take a walk out onto Foulney Island, marvelling at the countless Eider Ducks taking a break there. It is a pretty spot, with beautiful views out to the Lancashire Fells in the distance, familiar friends on my home ground.

But once again we are corralled by rope fences and endless forbidding signs. Our presence here is suffered obviously. I find it rather arrogant that some think the birds cannot tolerate any other wildlife passing peacefully by. Nature is far more resilient than so many give it credit for, but obviously only they are gifted enough to save the wildlife! A pity some of the sign making effort couldn't have gone into removing the plastic litter covering the place perhaps?

Rant over we head back, the tide is quickly coming in and as we near the van the track is swiftly becoming a causeway. I like to watch the water move and we sit and watch as it starts to flow over the stone bank, I am intrigued by the mechanics of one side being higher than the other.

As the salt marsh starts to cover we find the car park is becoming populated by kite and windsurfers. The dynamic is interesting to watch: there is a hierarchy and the top boy swaggers around, living up to the image, drinking in the adoration and sycophancy. That is until The Visitor rolls up, he pulls out his kit and quietly takes centre stage. The Alpha Male has just been out Alpha’d. David Attenborough could do a programme on this one.

It’s interesting to watch the folks skimming at high speed across water, only inches deep, skilful and speedy. But we get the feeling we are taking up valuable car parking space and take our leave.

A quick trip to the end of Roa helps no more to assess the conditions in the Bay and we retire a little further up the coast to take in the view and snooze in a peaceful picnic site on the edge of the Bay.

Eventually a no/go decision has to be taken; soon it will be too late to get across before nightfall. We head back once again to Roa. Thankfully the indecision is accompanied by a decrease in windspeed. Game on, let’s go.

Conveniently the long wait for the wind links quite well with the tide. There should still be flow down the channel and going across the Flats shouldn't be too bad, I’m hoping the fading of the ebb should settle the conditions out there a little. Further out, the Lune Deep runs out for about 9 out of 12 hrs I think, so that may be a little lumpy against the wind. And then I guess I’ll run out of tide somewhere as I close on Rossall, on the other side. But you can’t have everything, let’s get on with it.

It’s a splashy headwind out and down the ebbing channel. For 4 nm I have to be patient, ticking off the buoys, cut across too early and it may be impatient payback time as I get caught in the shallows. The last buoy goes by and eventually I can hang a loiue and point towards Blackpool Tower. The Flats go by with no hassle but then as I cross Lune Deep things chunk up quite a bit. It’s half an hour or so to get across that and I'm fairly glad when things start to settle. I'm expecting the tide to turn soon so I head in towards the coastline at Rossall, the venue for my first ‘surf’ outing.

A mile out the tide does indeed change, an increase in the wind accompanies the change. I find myself hanging outside the break, in the coffee coloured water. It’s not the most enticing stretch of coastal paddling anyway, but a number of years ago I stopped paddling here as I came across so many, to put it bluntly, turds floating in the water. I know the Utility company has been putting in some work in recent years and I am hoping to see an improvement. Not a major one it seems, Christopher Robin could have played poo sticks all day long here. I paddle along the choppy coast, marvelling on the diet of the locals that ensures their little mementoes can survive intact for so long in the surf.

Eventually the cold, wind and onset of darkness finish me off. I slide onto the sand at Bispham and trolley the boat up through the extent of concrete sea defences. As I reach the top, gasping for breath, I am very suddenly face to face with a very large and loud young guy, all muscles and so on. He is big, loud, in my face and accompanied by a carer.

I am a little taken aback, I'm only seconds off the water and not yet quite ready for Blackpool. But soon it dawns that he is a nice guy, he's just so curious about this idiot landing on the windswept beach in a pink canoe. He has so many questions - there is no edge, no agenda, nothing to prove, no pride or ego, just unbridled curiosity – all in a rather loud sort of way.

We speak for a while, until eventually the lady alongside drags him away without saying a word. He wishes me luck and waves as he goes. I reflect that I am lucky to be doing something that not everyone can have the opportunity to do. I hope he is doing well wherever he is now.

Seconds later I am standing in a crowd, holding a 5.5m of pink canoe on a trolley, waiting for the lights to change to cross the tram lines and promenade road. Blackpool Tower is all lit up just down the road.

It has been a day of contrasts.