Canoeing the Thames
Wallingford to Bourne End
Now canoeing has always appeared to me to be a leisurely activity, something that could do with little effort and still marvel at all the magnificence surrounding you.
To some degree it’s true, providing you didn’t have a destination, a deadline, a competitive streak or a strong head wind.
We arrived at Wallingford an hour ahead of launch time, enabling us to fill up the body’s fuel tank and warm up with a morning coffee.
At 9.15 our vessel arrived and it was time to make some very important decisions.
Red canoe, green canoe?
Molded seats, woven seats?
1 dry bag or 2 dry bags?
Which way is Bourne End?
Should I wear my leggings under my trousers?
It was advised to take the woven seats, as they provided a little more ‘give’… so we took the green canoe.
After establishing south, we launched Bessy with confidence and excitement at 9.40am, as we waved back to the small group of curious onlookers and well wishers.
We were on our way. According to my itinerary we had a total of 33 miles to cover. 10 miles a day seemed a reasonable target for a relaxing weekend. At a leisurely pace of 3mph I figured we’d be at our first camp just in time for lunch!!
Gently stroking our way through the water we passed certain landmarks that we used as a guide for our progress, including the Moulsford Railway Bridge with it’s beautiful twisted brick arches marking our first 4 miles.
About an hour into the trip the skies darkened and the forecast rain was a certainty. Just a little way ahead, just before the 6 mile point was another welcome landmark. The pub. As it was only just after 11 and the Beedle and Wedge was not yet open but our target, The Leathern Bottle, was sure to be gearing up for our welcome.
There on the left, just before Cleeve Lock, was the quaint and classy Bottle. We moored up at it’s river frontage and promptly ordered a hot toddy and cider while the sky surrendered its dampening load. All was going to plan. We were dry, we were hydrated and we were happy. 
During our break we broke out the map to take stock where we were, where we planned to camp and the rough mileage left to cover.
At this point I noticed a slight discrepancy on the itinerary I’d printed out.
We’d started at ‘62′… and were now at..57.5. Curious. We certainly hadn’t come backwards!!
Maybe it was supposed to read 67.5? NO… all the running mileage seemed to run in order, looking forward. It could only mean that ‘62′ should have read ‘52′. That means instead of a 33 mile journey, we were embarking on a 43 mile journey. OK, so the recalculation meant we had to push for 15 miles minimum on the first 2 days… Preferably more to ensure we were at the destination in time to unload, clean the canoe and make the handover at deadline on day 3.
Back in the canoe we went, at about 1pm, still confident in our ability to make haste and get the job done. Our first hour and half had been joyous enough; surely we could do this all day! 2 hours later and 5 miles further we had arrived at Pangbourne. In need of lunch and a leg stretch we pulled up at The Swan on the right, just at the edge of the weir. MY butt was starting to get numb and tension was building in the arms, shoulders and neck. It was to be expected, no biggie.
Even though the rain had stopped, the wind proved a handicap to our previous pace while demanding more effort from our tiring bodies. After lunch we legged it to the local Somerfields for some bare essentials. Namely wine and chocolate.
Looking at our River map we decided Polar Island or Appletree Eyot would be the most likely place to camp. 2 small islands just after Mapledurham Lock and a few miles before Reading, it was only another 4 miles away.
So back into Bessy we clambered, full of Lasagne, bottles in hand, chocolate at the ready. (actually I think that was a small lie, the chocolate was gone before we even got back to the mooring).
Within an hour and a half we had covered the remaining 4 miles and decided on Appletree Eyot as our plot for the night. An open clearing onto the river provided a space for us to tie up to some tree roots and scale the small rise from the canoe to the our pitch. Tapping into my primal being the first thing I felt the urge to do was mark my territory.
With that done, I could now call it home.
The tent was up within 10 minutes and we began to unload our belongings and get down to our first competitive event of the weekend. The cook-off.
Now, as you can imagine, everything we planned to take on the trip had to be ‘economy’ sized. We had no idea how much room we were going to have onboard and as such had purchased a teeny weeny cooking gadget very overstatedly referred to as a ’stove top’. Connecting to a small resealable gas canister, this ’stove top’ folded in on itself for storage and contained 3 prongs that popped out to support your pots as needed. Always up for small personal and competitive challenges, Ben and I agreed to a camp cuisine showdown. A battle of the Bush Buffet.
With a singular hob, a miniature frying pan and an assortment of very small pots (some being equal in size to a large mug), we had to prepare a wholesome and creative meal. No prepared ration style camp food pouches. No pot noodles. One must cook - not simply heat - in order to compete!
I had decided on ‘cheats paella’ for the main dish. All I needed was a shallot, chorizo, celery, semi-dried tomatoes (kept in resealable pouch), roasted peppers (stored in a small jar with oil), some boil in the bag Basmati rice and a preblended mix of salt, pepper, paprika, turmeric and chilli powder. All the fryables went on and our little hob worked like a dream. Once that was done, on went the rice. 10 minutes later the rice was drained in the bag, returned to the emptied pot and joined by the fried bits and stirred to mix. Hey presto!
It was some time during this champion display that I realised we were without plates or cutlery. Fortunately I had packed some small plastic bowls to use for soup or what-not… but cutlery was potentially an issue.
All of a sudden I was surrounded by millions of chopsticks, covered in bark… some even sprouting leaves!! Before long we had fashioned our utensils using a nifty multi-tool and we were shovelling Paella in like starved conquistadors.
All fed and 2 bottles of wine in, we settled down with the last of the sun and nuzzled into the rock hard ground underneath.
Originally we had considered sleeping without any ground mats in order to save on space in the canoe, but given the generous storage available we took along some roll up mats to insulate us and provide a little comfort - ‘A little comfort’ being a generous description, but certainly better than nothing!
As we had camped opposite one of the many Reading Festival camp sites, we were woken throughout the night with random drunken abuse being hurled here and there, as well as the late running, early beginning freight trains that passed on the head side of the island.
With a few winks under our belts we set off before 9am in order to get a good few miles done by lunch time.
Steadily we made our way into Reading, passing hordes of festivals zombies and the occasional casualty fallen twisted and pale by the rivers edge.
Onwards through Caversham Lock we soon passed the Kennet and Avon canal to our right then shortly after stepped downwards through Sonning Lock where we met up with a group of independent fellow paddlers. One very experienced adventurer suggested we take a small stream as a by-pass. Meandering it’s way through farmland and over-growth the quick stream would speed our journey but test our steering skills whilst providing a serene journey through the hidden passage of river grasses and brilliant blue butterflies.
St. Patricks Stream leaves the river to the right about 1 and a half miles after Sonning Lock and lived up to the hype of our enthusiast. Having to duck through foliage and turn sharply at most bends, the stream was full of surprises. At one point I’d thought I’d spotted a bunyip (An mythical Australian swamp creature) but was sadly disappointed when I realised it was a heavily built, shaggy headed man in a wetsuit… seemingly going for a swim (or walk) down stream. Unusual to say the least.
The stream took us half and hour, past some beautiful secluded properties and back onto the Thames just after Shiplake Lock.
It was just after 11am and about 5 miles to our designated lunch stop. I was starting to get tired and titchy, in need of some food and a toilet break. And hour or so onwards we were beckoned by a riverside pub in the distance, just as the river took a left bend.
The St. George and Dragon was a welcome stop, with comfortable club chairs indoors and a sunny patio with full table service outdoors. Straight to the bar for a warming Irish coffee, we then seated ourselves in the struggling sunshine for our meal.
One look at the menu and I knew we’d be seeing baked cheesed on the table. Another glance secured the scallops. Those were just for starters. Taking stock of our morning efforts we calculated a good 11 miles in our 3 and a half hours of morning activity. This allowed for a relatively relaxed afternoon cruise of 6-8 miles, and sure, 6-8 miles is relatively easy if you are not full of Irish Coffee, scallops, baked cheese and fish and chips. We allowed a good rest after our food and launched again just after 3pm. The Thames river followed the bend left, but to the right we saw another small backwater that looked to be a short cut. Feeling adventurous we took the path less traveled and found yet another treasure trove of backwater properties, overhanging willows and serenity not found on the river which was now starting to get busy.
Ducking under through a footbridge the Hennerton backwater flowed on for just over a mile before it rejoins the Thames before Marsh Lock. By the time we got through the lock we were starting to consider our camping options, the mileage involved and the ‘wine stops’ we would need to make in between.
At 3 miles further Hambledon Lock was sure to be a township that could provide us our alcohol requirements for the evening.
Or so we thought. We moored up on the right bank and walked over the weir along the pedestrain path to find a narrow winding country road.. and a large sign saying WINERY….THAT WAY <–. Hooooorah!
A short walk further we realised the elusive winery was not even within eye sight. No distant hills filled with vines, no nothing. Back to the canoe we go….we needed to get some miles down before dusk… wine or no wine.
Feeling a little defeated and still uncertain where we would set up camp for the night, we set off again in search of home.
Less than half a mile down river we stumble upon a small jetty on the right and a welcoming sign advertising The Flower Pot Hotel. Pub, food, beer garden. Surely this place would sell booooooooooooooooze!
Ben ambled the few hundred meters to the hotel to aquire a few bottles of wine while I kept eye on the canoe. On his return I was pleased to hear that the pub owners had a bottom paddock we could use as our camp ground - free of charge in a private yard of chickens, roosters, ducks, geese, an invalid goat and a pig the size of a rhinoceros. Score!
After carrying our packs and canoe up the lane we settled in for some well earned beverages in the large beer garden. Finally the sun went down and we moved indoors, browsing the menu board for the nights nourishment. We decided the right thing to do was at least eat at the pub in exchange for their accommodation and hospitality, meaning Ben had escaped his cook-off challenge… I still didn’t know what he had planned for his winning concoction, but I sensed he was shying away from the challenge.
The food and wine eventually worked it’s magic and sent me into a dozey state, preparing my body for another uncomfortable nights sleep. The sun had been down a couple of hours and it was time to get cozy, noticing my bodies natural decline into snoozeville once the darkness truly settled. Camping on the grass made all the difference to our comfort that night and both of us slept soundly… until the roosters woke. Hey ho, it comes with the territory I suppose. After 2 hours trying to ignore the incessant croaky cockel-dooing it was well and truly time to shed the campers cocoon and face the final stretch of our watery mission. According to the map, it was a mere 10 miles to Bourne End Marina - we would knock it out in around 3 hours.
After stretching the limbs and sipping a morning brew we braved the uncomfortable task of lugging the canoe back to the Thames. Nearing the entrance to the yard we noticed two characters standing by the gate, one armed with a camera with a powerful zoom. What on earth? Paparazzi? Was Jordan hiding her shame in the small green tent that had been tucked away at the paddocks edge? ‘Unlikely’. Our host farmer was out in the yard distributing scraps amongst the squabbles and clucking of the farms menagerie, while some distant onlookers kept their keen eyes on their own soon-to-be-had breakfast.
The cries started soon after and we were hooked as to what was going to happen next. Apparently up to 50 Red Kites gather in the area most Sunday mornings, coming to pick up the meatier scraps thrown out in the paddock and it turns out our photographer friend frequents the spot to capture the graces and maneuvers displayed during the feast at the weekends. We waited patiently, and although small numbers were growing and positioning themselves on the field fringes, it had hit 10 o’clock and we needed to be on our way. Without witness to the Red Kites feeding habits, we took our canoe to the waters edge and pushed off fit and fresh towards Marlow.
A mile or so down river, about half mile before Hurley Lock, there is a slipway on the right giving access to Hurley Caravan & Camping grounds. We had tried to book this place a week before our voyage but being a very popular site, it was booked solid over the long weekend and could never offer the charm or privacy of paddock-dwelling, but if you prefer good facilities, it’s a decent place to moor up. If you do fancy roughing it a little the islands after Hurely Lock are managed by the lock keepers and are usually less busy on your average weekend, but again they were full over our long weekend! A short way on from Hurley was Temple Lock. We were getting into very familiar territory now having been upstream from Bourne End a couple of times on a river boat. We were able to predict certain landmarks and my tummy reminded me it was lunchtime knowing we weren’t far from the finish line.
With Marlow in sight and the last chocolate muffin inhaled for sustenance, I found my reserve store of energy and powered towards the mooring for Marlow Lock, past the weir on our right and eagerly waited for the Lock Keeper to wave us in. And there we waited. And waited. And waited. Bloody Marlow. I get it now. Leisure boats & narrow boats queued up behind us, watching the river rise in the lock to release the outbound traffic. The gates opened finally and I felt a sense relief wash over me, I had become so impatient… and cold. I clutched my paddle, all raring to go. I looked to the Lock Keeper for ‘the signal’ and all I saw was the shake of his head. HuH? ‘I’m going to get the others in first and you can tuck in at the end’ was the message I got. Gggrrr. Cold, grumpy, denied. After waiting a good half hour and being drained of my last reserves of energy and enthusiasm we were finally ‘tucked in’ at the back of the lock and lowered smoothly to the level of our mile of honor. I could feel the carpet under my feet already. I could hear the radio playing. It was playing Chariots of Fire! NO, I was just getting a little delusional.
With our cabin boat destination in sight all the hard work finally started to pay off. The sense of achievement (and relief) washed over me as we paddled a little further on to our Borne End ‘local’- The Bounty - for A warm meal and home brewed ginger beer. Rewarded and satisfied we recovered there quietly before taking Bessy the canoe back across river where she could be washed and dried, to be collected by Thames Canoes for her next adventure.
Triumph. Glory. Exhaustion.
Brilliant.
(After thought: Yes, Ben did cook his challenge, but not on the camp stove top. A delicious sausage stir fry in black bean sauce, it was a worthy competitor to my Paella, but luckily for me a disqualification saw me come through to claim ‘Camp Cook-Off’ victory. Check out the recipe pages for camp cuisine ideas!)
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