Kayaking on the River Usk, S.Wales
Created | Updated Dec 23, 2002
23rd & 24th November, 2002
Matt and I loaded the car and left in a rush Friday night for Bwlch. (south of the Brecon Beacons National Park) Map book open on lap, Alice Cooper cranked up on the stereo, and the rain beating down in a promising manner.
We arrived tired but expectant at the farmstead late in the evening to join most of the usual happy faces, already toasting their toes by the open fire in the communal lounge.
Saturday dawned to the sounds and smells of breakfast cooking and shortly we were gathered for the off. The youngsters had bunked up in a large bedroom together and were now swaggering wisecracking best mates. It’s heartening to see young people doing all these boy scouty things that seem so missing from modern life.
The two 5 mile trips on the Usk have merged in my memory but a flavour of the paddling proceeds as follows.
The Usk is a beautiful river, which winds through misty hillsides in spectacular fashion. It is wide and fast and its features are sufficiently challenging to require attention. The first feature I find indelibly etched on my ‘hard disk’ is known locally as Horseshoe Falls.
We’d been led around on foot to inspect the fall and I was struck by its picturesque nature, the sun popping out on cue to backlight the cascading water, providing one of those camera moments that crop up only rarely, and then only if you haven’t got your camera with you.
The less experienced paddlers negotiated the fall easily, reminding one of ducklings following a mother duck, and waited in the eddy for the more experienced to follow. A number followed down without incident until Sara took the drop. The adjacent stopper took a nasty sideways suck at her bow and meaningful back paddling was required to avoid a more intimate relationship developing.
Then down came Barry. The hole took another suck, this time harder, and Barry was introduced to his new master for what seemed like the next few minutes.
What followed immediately after Barry’s boat took a 90 right into the whooshy white bit without asking him, only Barry knows, and even he’s not sure. We know he got sucked out of his boat, his helmet was then sucked unceremoniously off, and his £200 Werner paddles were mugged from his grasp, never to be returned.
Safety numbers on the bank cast throw lines and John launched manfully into action in his long yellow barge, cutting a path through the turbulence that had now taken on new meaning, straight towards the bobbing gurgling victim and plucked him spluttering from the cauldron.
We are all grateful that John’s skills are put to such effective use when the occasion occasionally occasions.
On the second day the most interesting section was Mill Falls. An old mill stood majestic, rustic, organic on the port bank. The falls consisted of a semi-technical series of drops and breakouts involving ferry gliding and more precise manoeuvres to achieve the best line.
Only those judged sufficiently competent negotiated these falls, and a clean run rewarded the paddler with a warm glow.
An encounter with a rock turned my son’s vessel over in front of the onlookers on he banks.
But before you could say ‘She was only the Millers Daughter..’ Matt had hand rolled up, and hand paddled primate fashion down the remaining rapid, chasing his bobbing paddles which had broken in half at the shaft. Cheers and clapping proceeded from those on the banks and a ripple of joy and pride sped through his father’s body.
The ride home, the stereo turned down and the sound of the navigator snoring instead, enabled a contemplative hour or two.
The weekend had been one involving most of mans physical senses, to the dual ends of friendship and canoeing. Nice place, nice people, nice pastime.
What else is there?
Matt and I loaded the car and left in a rush Friday night for Bwlch. (south of the Brecon Beacons National Park) Map book open on lap, Alice Cooper cranked up on the stereo, and the rain beating down in a promising manner.
We arrived tired but expectant at the farmstead late in the evening to join most of the usual happy faces, already toasting their toes by the open fire in the communal lounge.
Saturday dawned to the sounds and smells of breakfast cooking and shortly we were gathered for the off. The youngsters had bunked up in a large bedroom together and were now swaggering wisecracking best mates. It’s heartening to see young people doing all these boy scouty things that seem so missing from modern life.
The two 5 mile trips on the Usk have merged in my memory but a flavour of the paddling proceeds as follows.
The Usk is a beautiful river, which winds through misty hillsides in spectacular fashion. It is wide and fast and its features are sufficiently challenging to require attention. The first feature I find indelibly etched on my ‘hard disk’ is known locally as Horseshoe Falls.
We’d been led around on foot to inspect the fall and I was struck by its picturesque nature, the sun popping out on cue to backlight the cascading water, providing one of those camera moments that crop up only rarely, and then only if you haven’t got your camera with you.
The less experienced paddlers negotiated the fall easily, reminding one of ducklings following a mother duck, and waited in the eddy for the more experienced to follow. A number followed down without incident until Sara took the drop. The adjacent stopper took a nasty sideways suck at her bow and meaningful back paddling was required to avoid a more intimate relationship developing.
Then down came Barry. The hole took another suck, this time harder, and Barry was introduced to his new master for what seemed like the next few minutes.
What followed immediately after Barry’s boat took a 90 right into the whooshy white bit without asking him, only Barry knows, and even he’s not sure. We know he got sucked out of his boat, his helmet was then sucked unceremoniously off, and his £200 Werner paddles were mugged from his grasp, never to be returned.
Safety numbers on the bank cast throw lines and John launched manfully into action in his long yellow barge, cutting a path through the turbulence that had now taken on new meaning, straight towards the bobbing gurgling victim and plucked him spluttering from the cauldron.
We are all grateful that John’s skills are put to such effective use when the occasion occasionally occasions.
On the second day the most interesting section was Mill Falls. An old mill stood majestic, rustic, organic on the port bank. The falls consisted of a semi-technical series of drops and breakouts involving ferry gliding and more precise manoeuvres to achieve the best line.
Only those judged sufficiently competent negotiated these falls, and a clean run rewarded the paddler with a warm glow.
An encounter with a rock turned my son’s vessel over in front of the onlookers on he banks.
But before you could say ‘She was only the Millers Daughter..’ Matt had hand rolled up, and hand paddled primate fashion down the remaining rapid, chasing his bobbing paddles which had broken in half at the shaft. Cheers and clapping proceeded from those on the banks and a ripple of joy and pride sped through his father’s body.
The ride home, the stereo turned down and the sound of the navigator snoring instead, enabled a contemplative hour or two.
The weekend had been one involving most of mans physical senses, to the dual ends of friendship and canoeing. Nice place, nice people, nice pastime.
What else is there?
