Out on Loch Striven ... on a Thursday

I recall a TV advert some years ago (in the US, I think) which featured a be-suited chap walking down a busy city street. He is stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of a SUV driving past, fully laden with adventure gear and evidently heading off to the great outdoors somewhere well beyond the city limits. As he stares in disbelief, he mumbles, “But it’s Tuesday”. I can relate to both parties in that advert – I have been that frustrated office worker, but more recently I have been that Tuesday skiver. Guess which one I like best!

So it was Thursday and the sun was shining. As much as I love my days spent in the office clicking a mouse and attending to the whims important and pressing needs of my customers, I decided to take advantage of the benefits of being self-employed and awarded myself a well-deserved day off. Alan did likewise, so we hit the high seas for a day of unremitting enjoyment in the wind and waves (and calm). We had a bit of everything to keep us entertained, a brisk breeze and some lumpiness upon setting out (which saw our Nordkapps friskily at play), followed by an ethereal flat calm by the end of the day.

Returning in the gloaming

After reaching Bute, we headed north towards the Kyles. We stopped for lunch at a nice little beach back over on the Cowal side and noted that the temperature would suggest that it wasn’t quite summer yet. As we were approaching Colintraive, Alan commented that his shoulder was beginning to hurt. Rolling practice has taken its toll, alas. I therefore resigned myself to a slightly shorter paddle than I’d been anticipating. We turned around and started heading homewards, but then Alan suggested we take a detour up Loch Striven, and very pleasant it was. Having gone some way up the loch, we worked our way back down towards Toward. After 26 km of paddling, I began to notice that I was feeling the tiniest bit exerted, and contemplated who, at this rate, would win the competition for the sorest shoulders. Alan appeared to have worked through his pain, but I was developing some new and interesting aches all of my very own. I consoled myself by focusing on the beautiful surroundings, the various seal sightings (5 total!), the birds, the peacefulness and the realisation that I was building some good conditioning for the months of paddling ahead.

Miscellaneous observations from our outing:

• I still cannot imagine making an urgent surf landing after a full day’s paddling. As I peel my spray deck back, it takes some considerable time for me to re-engage the use of my legs. This, combined with the uneven surface of the shoreline, often reduces me to a state of near crawling on hands and knees, which is all very pathetic. Answers on a postcard please …
• If I tweak the wrist seals of my drysuit throughout the day, it stops my hands from swelling. Good to know.
• Sanitary products of a feminine nature do not miraculously evaporate when flushed down the toilet. If they don’t choke the sewage system, they are likely to end up floating in the sea, which is unpleasant for humans and wildlife alike. (Perhaps there is a need for an awareness campaign here).
• To my mind, seals sound a lot like whales when they snort unexpectedly behind you.
• Nordkapps handle chop with consummate ease.

And so on Friday, I returned refreshed and renewed to my desk … until such time as the contents of my inbox disgorged themselves on to my PC screen at least. I’m not sure if these sneaky days off truly serve the purpose of renewal, especially as I do have to make up the lost work time, or if they just leave one yearning for a lot more of the same.

“Some people say that mountain climbers are really wasting their time. They have nothing better to do so they climb mountains, tire themselves out, and come back with nothing to show for it. Yet a person who climbs a tall mountain sees the world and experiences nature in a very different way from someone who never leaves his own front door. Genuine mountain climbers do not struggle up great precipices for the glory of it. They know that glory is only a label given by others. A true climber climbs for the experience of climbing.” Ch’an Master Sheng-yen,

The QE2 sailed back to her birthplace on the Clyde one last time today, before heading for retirement as a floating hotel in Dubai. This was quite a momentous event – almost as momentous as her 40th birthday celebrations last year, which we had also thought was her last visit to the Clyde. I still haven’t really determined if I got that wrong, or everyone else did. Nonetheless, it’s always good to see the QE2 again and to feel the pride (and poignancy) of knowing that such a splendid vessel is Clyde-built.

Thar she blows! (And so does the QE2)

So today we decided to join in the festivities on the water, especially seeing that it was a fittingly beautiful, sunny day. Moments after spotting the QE2 with her escort, HMS Manchester, from our house as large dots on the horizon, we headed down to launch at Cluniter in Innellan. We knew that it wouldn’t be long before we were alongside both ships, although perhaps not in the strictest sense. A few things prevented us from getting up too close, including the exclusion zone in operation (had we known about it), but mostly the prospect of being mowed down by the behemoth vessels (and entourage of followers) with which we found ourselves sharing the Clyde.

Sure enough, the celebrity liner, her military bodyguard and flotilla of fans and paparazzi sailed grandly past, a couple of miles to our starboard, as we stuck to the quiet side of the river. We took photos and listened avidly to the greatly increased VHF radio traffic which served to heighten the sense of occasion. Helicopters, including the Royal Navy’s, flew directly above us – I’d like to think they found us interesting had seen us, but we resisted the temptation to wave lest an airman were to urgently descend on a rope to perform a rescue (things not to do …). Certainly, if we had planned on having an emergency, today would have been a good day to do it, being that there were any number of potential rescue vessels and aircraft in the vicinity.

QE2 and HMS Manchester (swell to follow)

As it became apparent that we couldn’t quite match the speed of the QE2 and her fleet, we dropped back to our usual more leisurely 3-4 knots, but soon discovered that the real fun was only just starting! Suddenly we became aware of a significant and increasing swell. It soon became quite reminiscent of our trip to Lewis as we bounced up and down on the wake generated by the QE2 and her fleet. Well, perhaps the swells weren’t quite as high as those experienced in Lewis, but we estimate a good metre’s worth and certainly enough to give our Nordkapps their first experience of something resembling “conditions”. What fun it was! Finally we had confirmation of the Nordkapps’ legendary solid handling of waves and neither of us felt at all uncomfortable or nervous. I would go as far as to say that I felt less anxious than when in my Capella, but of course time and a little experience could have helped a bit with that.

It was with disappointment that we determined that the swell had diminished by the time we approached Dunoon. Once again, the entertainment was provided by the radio traffic. I had been noting communication with the aircraft carrier HMS Ark Royal and started to speculate that it was still to sail up-river, which could only mean one thing – more swell! Sadly, however, it came into view in the vicinity of the Tail o’ the Bank having anchored there stealthily outwith our awareness (perhaps sailing up yesterday when we could scarcely see across the river due to poor weather).

Beautiful Holy Loch

We cruised past Dunoon and on to Hunter’s Quay, paddling briskly past both ferry stops (never good places to linger). As we turned into the Holy Loch, we were once again reminded of the magnificent scenery right on our doorstep and we took a few moments there to fuel up on snacks for the return journey. Conditions were by now completely calm and, it must be said that, despite the sunshine, the scenery, the wildlife etc, we did feel a small sense of anti-climax in the knowledge that the excitement experienced on the outward journey would not be forthcoming on the return.

Still, it was good to turn our attention to the less temporary visitors and residents of the Clyde, being the birds and the seals. I spotted a few turnstones and stopped to watch them shuffle about the shore line whilst Alan was visited by a seal. There were all the usual cast and crew of eider ducks, cormorants, oystercatchers and gulls – all no doubt wondering what the fuss and noise were about.

The CalMac ferry’s hourly sailing appeared to have been delayed, so we paddled under Dunoon pier and around the linkspan to avoid the risk of being caught up in any sudden departures. A leisurely journey back to Innellan saw us home by 4 pm, having been on the water since 10 am. A little stiffness was noted as we clambered out of our kayaks and I have still to determine how this will translate when potentially making a speedy exit during a surf landing (yet to be experienced). I imagine a lot of flailing and cursing may be involved.

As I type this, the QE2 is due to make her final sail down the Clyde any minute now. I’m certain a little lump will come to the throat as we bid her farewell for the last time (this time) and say good bye to a grand Scottish lady. We will remember her fondly, not least because of the fun she provided 2 tiny kayaks sharing her waters on this special day.

A momentous event occurred this week: it stopped raining and blowing a gale for the first time in living memory, or at least in several weeks. A high pressure system finally managed to muster up enough oomph to nudge the all-too-prevailing low pressure out of the way for a bit. This left us with no choice, but we simply had to bunk off work take an official, well-deserved 2-day holiday. It did feel a wee bit like skidging school as we sneaked out the house, surreptitiously securing our kayaks to the car roof and wending our way seawards. We’d originally thought about camping out overnight, but a lack of forward planning/organisational skills narrowed our options and we decided to explore two quite different locales each day instead.

Arran mountains from Cumbrae

On Monday, we paddled around Great Cumbrae. Somewhat amazingly, especially considering that we are members of an Ayrshire kayaking club, we had never done this before and therefore felt that it was high time. Yet again, we found ourselves in flat calm conditions. If Nordkapps have feelings, I’m sure that ours would be experiencing anxiety, or even depression over having such soft marks as owners and being deprived of the conditions upon which they thrive. It’s not that we’re avoiding a more challenging environment, it’s more that we’re saving it for company (preferably of 5 star ilk with good rescue skills). Certainly though, a little more chop wouldn’t go amiss, however, the winds have tended to veer from gale force to non-existent of late, with not much in between. And so it was as we paddled our way around Cumbrae to Millport, a place I haven’t been since Sunday school picnics of yore.

We continued south and experienced some highly momentary excitement as the wake of a motor vessel caught up with us. But we soon returned to boring old idyllic, almost tropical, conditions as we made our way around to the western side of the island. This is where matters took a bit of a disappointing turn as we encountered endless amounts of rubbish in the water on the approach to Fintray Bay. It looked like someone had emptied a huge bin full of sweetie papers and crisp packets directly into the river. I have read recently that an excess of jellyfish signifies a degraded ecosystem, and – albeit coincidentally – there were certainly plenty of Lion’s Mane jellyfish in the vicinity of the rubbish tip that we paddled through. This all fed a building sense of despair which was compounded by the discovery of a dead guillemot floating in the water (a seabird whose future is in jeopardy – see recent news item). Like an icebreaker travelling through the Arctic, we managed to cut a path through the jellyfish up to Bell Bay where we stopped to enjoy the view and have a bite to eat.

Isn't she lovely? Nordkapps at Bell Bay, Cumbrae

I do find myself continually pausing to admire and photograph my Nordkapp LV whenever we land on a beach. It reminds me of an occasion in the past when, upon visiting the Grand Canyon, we were amused to see an enormous articulated RV (recreational vehicle) pull up to a scenic viewpoint. The driver jumped out of the cab and, while everyone else was turned to face the amazing scenery presented by the Canyon, he turned in the opposite direction to gaze with awe at his big rig and then take some photos of it. It is just a tiny bit troubling to note that I can now relate, however slightly.

Heading back to Largs

We completed our trip by paddling around the north end of the island, affording us good views of the large pipe-laying vessel, the Solitaire, which has been anchored off of Cumbrae for some days now. Soon we were back over at Largs which was still happily bathed in sunshine.

And today Cumbrae is in the news. Continuing on a cheery environmental note, the scientists at the University Marine Biological Research Station located there are issuing warnings concerning the threat of invasive Japanese wireweed which has spread rapidly up the west coast of Scotland. Users of the sea are being asked to report any findings. I’m not entirely sure to whom, but I imagine that Scottish Natural Heritage would be a good start. Whilst I do take serious issue with certain environmental matters relating to Japan, I’m not convinced that the combined threat of Japanese wireweed and Japanese knotweed is part of a plot to entwine the world in weed. I do, however, wish they would confine their exports to the more traditional cameras and tellies … or at least send us an antidote.

With continuing good weather, albeit in more autumnal temperatures, we set off early on Tuesday for Tayinloan and a visit to the island of Gigha. More to follow …

Valley Nordkapp LV and Nordkapp

Finally, the happy day arrived when we were united with our new Valley Nordkapps. We drove to Loch Lomondside on Thursday and met up with the chaps from Desperate Measures who kindly delivered our new charges to us, having travelled all the way from their birthplace (the kayaks’, that is) in Nottingham. My Nordkapp LV came wrapped in a big tubi-grip (which I’m sure will come in handy again some day for a very large sprain), and Alan’s Nordkapp was still in its factory wrappings. We loaded the kayaks on to our j-bars in the middle of a torrential downpour which I viewed as an auspicious baptism of sorts. Alan discovered that it was no longer feasible to suspend himself off of the ties when tightening them, as fibre-glass kayaks are slightly more delicate than our old plastic boats. On the drive south, a rainbow appeared (another auspicious sign) which had me contemplating a suitable name. I think Rainbow Warrior is, however, taken.

Nordkapp

By happy coincidence, it was club night at the loch, so we headed straight for Kilbirnie. Our beautiful vessels were unveiled and launched (minus champagne, alas) amidst much favourable comment from our fellow paddlers. It was quite a privilege to have the history of the Nordkapp related to us by the elder statesman of UK kayaking, Duncan Winning, who played no small part in the development of the very kayaks we now proudly own.

Alan and I took great pleasure in birling around in circles in the loch as we edged with abandon, feeling as if the kayaks were an extension of ourselves. Finally, our energy was being channelled directly to the kayak, and not dissipating somewhere along the way as used to be the case. We found ourselves wondering how we’d managed for a whole entire year of paddling without this amazing advantage.

The self-rescue question remained prominent in my mind and I felt that there was no point in losing an opportunity to practice. So, as the evening darkness descended, in I jumped, once again marvelling at how liftable the Nordkapp LV is as I righted it and then clambered on top. I was able to maintain my balance and shuffled along to regain my seat, almost effortlessly. Yet another auspicious sign! It felt as if my kayak was proving its allegiance to me – the start of a beautiful relationship.

Happiness is ... a new Nordkapp LV

We were back out on Sunday in the flat calm of the Clyde as we paddled from Toward to Bute, to the Kyles of Bute, to Loch Striven and back to Toward. We must have sounded a bit like the nearby eider ducks, ooh-ing and aww-ing away at the wonderful qualities of our respective kayaks. The only thing missing was a bit of chop or swell in order to test the Nordkapps’ legendary performance in rougher seas, but I’m sure that will come soon enough.

I recognise that I have spent a great deal of time recently expounding affection for what is essentially a material thing. This rather contradicts the principles of non-attachment that I have been studying in yoga and in relation to mindfulness generally. I would argue in my defence that my kayak is not purely a material “thing”. It is very much a vehicle for focusing one’s mind away from the clutter of everyday life, the anxieties, the conditioned responses, the judgements. When you are out on the water, at one with your kayak and the sea, there is nothing else for you to do except just be in the moment. And that is nothing short of spiritual.