Paddling Through Porridge
Previously published in "Canoeing" magazine.
Story and pictures © 1997 Dianne Davies
Getting into the boat from my crutches was not the first hurdle.
Still hobbling after breaking my hip whilst making a cup of tea at Guides (but that's quite another story), I was beginning to feel more than a little "stir - crazy" and in need of a bit of fresh air. Having been out of circulation for over four months, I also needed some exercise which didn't involve too much strain leg-wise, so dusting off the kayaks and paddles and going out for a spin seemed just the job. My family had other opinions, however.
Now, to set the record straight : I am not a born canoeist. I took up the sport only a few years ago, at the ripe old age of old-enough-to-know-better, and my feeble efforts at slalom are already legendary (nobody told me you were allowed to go round and have a second go at the gate if you couldn't get to it first time, and when they're running along the bank screaming "Sprint! Sprint!" believe me, kid - for me, this is sprinting! Anyway, in most sports the highest score is the winner).
But I digress : one broken hip, a garage full of assorted canoes and kayaks, and three grown offspring who will not be seen dead canoeing with their mother even when she is reasonably sound in wind and limb. Eventually, with more than a few threats and bribes, Catherine was finally induced to accompany Mum for a nice gentle potter along the Pocklington Canal. Not that the pub at the canal head had anything to do with it. We decided on just a couple of miles or so each way - about a five mile round trip. (I know it doesn't sound very exciting but by now most of the macho young men who dominate the sport - my sons included - will have stopped reading anyway, so I can say it with my head held high.)
Given the gentle nature of the water it seemed reasonable to waive the usual minimum of three, so we drove to the canal head without incident and Catherine unloaded her Razor and my Conquest, grabbed the paddles and then heaved me out of the car.
Which brings us back to getting into a kayak when you're on crutches!
I like my Conquest - it's comfy, very forgiving, and has a nice big cockpit, useful for getting in and bailing out when you're not quite as agile as you used to be. But picture this : boat and paddles on the canal bank (I'd already decided that seal launching was the only option), with me standing astride it like a tripod, one foot and two crutches, trying to work out how I was going to manage this. Catherine was no help - she was too busy falling about with laughter until she realised that we were attracting an audience, when she went into her she's-not-with-me embarrassed denial phase (those of you with teenagers will recognise this instantly) and left me to fend for myself whilst she rummaged pointedly in the back of the car. Eventually a kindly soul from amongst the spectators came to my rescue, took a firm grip under my arms and virtually slotted me, feet first, in through the cockpit and, once seated, I was back in business. Catherine reappeared and almost threw me down the bank and into the canal (I think she was afraid I was about to take a collection from the audience), hurled my paddles after me, tossed my crutches in the back of the car and joined me as rapidly as she could : we were off at last.
The Pocklington Canal is definitely an "easy" paddle : lying a few miles south-east of York, and, as far as we could see, going from nowhere to nowhere, it suited us just fine. A rough footpath runs along one side, but so rough that the few walkers we did see turned back whilst still in sight of the pub, and the occasional artistically crumbly brick footbridge arches over the canal, also seeming to go from nowhere to nowhere. The weather was glorious, the yellow water-lilies were still in bloom, and large blue damselflies danced over the water to rest on our boats. The water was crystal clear and had no current to speak of, so we made good progress even though I wasn't as comfortable as usual and I'd forgotten just how much use you make of your legs whilst paddling. We stopped and ate sandwiches, watched the ducks (and fed them the crusts) and paddled on our way. Catherine was beginning to enjoy herself too, in spite of me slowing her down : it made a nice change to be able to look around and to have enough breath left to actually talk as we went along!
My distance vision is not wonderful (it goes at about the same time as the short-term memory, you know) so it was Catherine who spotted them first : "Look Mum! A family of swans! Aren't they lovely!" On a chocolate box lid, in a photo, yes : on a canal, in front of you : no. Daddy swans do not like water craft at the best of times, especially when said water craft are small enough for him to feel confident of beating them in a fight, and with the kids and the missus in tow he was not pleased to see us at all. We slid slowly to a stop - no frantic back-paddling - 1) we didn't want to alarm him, and 2) we weren't going fast enough to need an emergency stop anyway. "I told you to bring the camera ! Look! He's spreading his wings and coming this way! Doesn't he look gorgeous?" Wonderful! Just what I needed. I managed to tear her away from the bird-watching and we paddled slowly and nonchalantly back the way we had come. Poppa swan escorted us for some distance, hissing and behaving in a suitably macho way to impress the family, but he didn't make a serious challenge so I never had to test the theory that attacking swans will aim at the highest point (raise dayglo orange Schlegels into the air p.d.q. to provide suitable target; if that fails - roll !)
We made our way back to the canal basin, through the water-lilies and more damselflies, stopping this time to watch a family of Moorhens who were not in the least bit put out by our intrusion, and decided that, as it was such a lovely day, we'd carry on up the eastern arm of the canal. That was when we found the porridge. For the botanists amongst you, I think it was Lemna minor mixed with Spirogyra, but believe me, it might just as well have been green porridge. Complete with lumps. From cruising steadily along with the minimum of effort (I had loosened up by then, and it's like riding a bike - you really don't forget how) I came to an abrupt halt. I suppose it was my own fault - I saw this green carpet ahead of me, but all the others had been thin mats of duckweed which parted as we passed, so I paddled on. This was pure aquatic Axminster and held me firmly! Catherine had the sense to paddle round it so once again got more than her fair share of entertainment out of me, until I paddled laboriously out of it into clear water once more. As we paddled further up the canal, the porridge became more extensive until eventually it stretched right across from bank to bank. Catherine's slalom boat slid over it much more easily than mine, so she gave me a tow through the thickest patches and we went merrily on our way. As we rounded the next bend, there it was, ahead of us: another swan, a fair distance away, but displaying furiously. We were about ready to turn back anyway, so not wanting to disturb the wildlife, or push our luck, we set off back for the canal basin where we had left the car.
Paddling steadily, we soon got back to the porridge patch : Catherine was slightly ahead and got through without incident. I followed behind, paddling into the evening sun, which was beginning to dazzle by then, glinting off the water. I must confess I wasn't concentrating too hard, being too busy enjoying the surroundings, the weather and the company, when suddenly I found myself paddle-less and therefore stuck in the middle of the weed. Something had grabbed my paddle and wrenched it out of my (obviously none too firm) grasp. Catherine stopped giggling just long enough to point it out, firmly entangled in a mass of blanket weed, and out of my reach. Have you ever tried paddling through green slime using just your hands? I had visions of capsizing into it if I stretched out too far (I can't hand-roll and I didn't fancy having to eject and swim in that lot, least of all with a broken hip), so I manoeuvred myself into position, freed my paddle and struggled to get moving again.
The rest of the paddle back was uneventful. We fed the last of the sandwiches to the ducks, finished our drinks and paddled back to our starting point. Catherine got out first, I paddled hard at the bank and lifted the bows at the last minute so she could grab the boat and haul me up onto the bank and, there being no helpful spectators around this time, manhandle me out of the boat (ouch!) and back to the car. Fortunately, in spite of wrestling with submerged paddles, I was still pretty dry (I always said canoeing was a dry sport) so I didn't need to get completely changed. A quick visit to the pub (softies only - no drinking and driving here, thanks) and then home.
The outing was declared a success, particularly in view of the state of one of the paddlers, and we vowed to do it again. With hindsight, however, we will be making just one or two alterations : we will
1) give a wide berth to swans, but take extra bread for the ducks,
2) avoid green porridgey stuff at all costs, (unless in training and wanting to increase our upper body strength!)
3) take plenty of sunscreen -the sun reflected off the water burns the underside of your nose!
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