Bluedome - Canadian Canoe trip on the Thames

Two Englishmen and a Canadian - A River Journey

Jerome K Jerome, his two friends and their dog did it, but that was around the turn of the 20th Century when striped jackets, boater hats and home-made lemonade were a ubiquitous sight the length and breadth of Old Father Thames. The traditional skiff has been replaced by the overbearing presence of motorised pleasure cruisers – “Plastic Palaces” capable of reaching Kingston, Jamaica, never mind Kingston-Upon-Thames. Striped jackets have been usurped by crisp designer shirts, lemonade by Bollinger or Pimms and the well-heeled young women brandishing parasols and an alluring reserve have been replaced by brazen bikini-clad bronzed beauties (not that that really caused us much distress). Nevertheless, the fraternity one encounters when taking any craft of any size up the River Thames has seemingly not been compromised by the impersonality of modernity, and it was this riverside community that myself and my friend for this expedition relied upon to ease our passage.

Embarkation: Kingston-Upon-Thames

One hundred and ten miles was a tall order in only five days. Hampton Court to Oxford can be driven in around an hour but navigating the historic meanders of the river posed a more arduous task. Limited by budget but with reckless enthusiasm in abundance, as most young men in their early twenties are, we plumped for a hand built wooden Canadian canoe borrowed from two gentlemen, one of who is the proprietor of this website, the other a veteran of Arabian Peninsula counterinsurgency, but both with a keen interest in seeing how the “old girl” would handle having laid upturned beneath a tree for the last few years. A lick of paint later and The Kontiki, as we affectionately christened her, was being cast off from a marina within sight of the Tudor residence, Hampton Court, owned by Cardinal Wolsey but who was later evicted by Henry VIII, arguably out of jealousy, in 1526. The Kontiki sprang a leak as soon as we had put her on the water and loaded her up. Naturally our initial excitement was instantly marred by the thoughts that we may find ourselves bailing furiously within our first few miles or worse, swimming for one of the banks in full view of the Kingston elite, sat on their riverside terraces basking in the thirty degree heat. The first mile was the acid test, not only of our canoeing ability (of which we had minimal experience) but also of the hulls’ integrity when fully loaded up with two adults and equipment. Having ascertained that the dribble of water collecting at my feet at the stern was not becoming a torrent, we paddled on upstream.

Canadian canoes are fickle creatures when it comes to convincing them of maintaining a steady heading. They wander around all over the river, as if keen to assert their independence over the people who have graciously offered to take them out on this expedition in the first place. Like a stubborn child that drags its feet when being pulled along by its parents, The Kontiki seemed adamant that she should dictate the direction of travel for at least the first few miles, and by extension decide which riverside attractions we would get to see. Her fascination for riverbank marsh was only rivalled by her passion for obstructing the passage of other boats on the river, who would blast us with their claxons once they were within fifty feet. In turn we would coax the old girl out of the way with some strategic paddling and offer pathetic apologies to the skipper on behalf of our mute canoe as he thrashed passed at a mind-boggling rate of knots. Being at the rear, the burden of responsibility when it came to direction fell squarely on my shoulders and once I had convinced The Kontiki to relinquish some control we made good steady progress, cutting the apex of the meanders and saving us valuable time. My friend for this expedition occupied the bow seat and with his short, sturdy and stoical frame, provided a great deal of forward momentum for us and I eventually managed to convince him that my intermittent paddling was only because every five or so strokes I had to correct our direction with some skilful rudder work.

The first lock we encountered would set the tone for our approach to every other. The Environment Agency maintain their locks impeccably and each is manned by an on-site lock keeper and an assistant. Vessels approach, form a very English queue by mooring to one side and then enter the lock in an orderly fashion, or for canoes, there is portage available which enables you to carry your craft around the lock without having to wait the twenty minutes or so it takes for craft coming downstream to finish their cycle and exit. With all of our equipment, carrying the whole lot around seemed more trouble than it was worth so we patiently waited for the doors of the cavernous Moulsey Lock to open. During the time of Jerome K Jerome, Moulsey Lock was one of the busiest on the river and this title could easily have been bestowed upon it even today. Vessels of all sizes queued up to enter and once through, moored up outside a popular riverside pub for lunch. Even at locks there is an unfortunate social hierarchy and etiquette which must be obeyed. Arriving first doesn’t necessarily grant you first place in the lock we discovered. “Plastic Palaces,” take precedence over narrow-boats, narrow-boats take precedence over skiffs and even water-beetles it seems take precedence over canoes. Much to our dismay, after a hard paddle we were halted at the lock by the lock-keeper’s authoritative shouts of; “Canoe?! Can you come in last, please.”

It seemed terribly unfair that we, after propelling our overburdened craft, hand-built from natural materials and causing no obvious damage to the environment or the beauty of the river, should be demoted to last place simply because of our size in favour of these diesel guzzling QEII’s that really ought to have been on the ocean. One lock-keeper attempted to justify the legislation by recounting a story of a canoe being crushed in between two pleasure cruisers, but this did little to assuage the anger of the two Manchester malcontents aboard The Kontiki with paddles raised ready for battle. After some brief debate we concurred that pillaging the lock-keepers cottage, burning it to the ground then escaping to our longboat in some vengeful Nordic frenzy was seemingly out of the question, and besides, neither of us was in possession of a horned helmet.

Queuing for a lock & resignation at being demoted to last place

We despondently accepted our status as second-class citizens and purely by chance discovered that being at the back of the lock actually had its advantages as well as its obvious disadvantages. On the one hand, the acrid diesel emissions from the motorised vessels would swamp our canoe and almost poison us before we’d even managed to paddle out of the lock, or the wake created by the double propped pleasure cruisers would have us paddling for our lives and going absolutely nowhere. Equally however, at the back we were in full view of the people aboard the boats which meant conversation, cups of tea and even, and this is the most important point, the offer of a tow. After ten miles paddling it became abundantly clear that at this rate, factoring in the increase in temperature (on the river it was 34 degrees) the upstream direction, tidal flow, wind direction, the time we had to wait at the locks and a whole host of other technical anomalies there simply isn’t room to include here, Oxford as our final destination was highly unlikely. Keen to adhere to the Three Men in a Boat book as closely as possible, we thought it only right and proper and in the spirit of Jerome K Jerome himself that we shirk at least some of our paddling responsibilities and opt for a tow instead. Besides, how on earth were we to sufficiently enjoy the countryside if we were paddling through it? We threw a line to our new friends aboard their “Plastic Palace” and reclined in our canoe as we made 6 knots up the Thames towards Windsor. We were cut loose shortly after the castle grounds which take up an entire bank of the river for a good two miles. The grounds were beautifully kept, as one might expect, and we momentarily considered pitching our tent in a secluded corner of the Royal Estate to guarantee a secure and peaceful nights sleep. We were only dissuaded by the sudden presence of an unmarked Police Range Rover bearing the Royal insignia and a rather stern man in the passenger seat brandishing a Heckler-Koch. We felt sure the penalty for trespass in Her Majesty’s back-garden would be quite severe and so neither wishing to risk having ourselves nor The Kontiki riddled with bullet-holes, which surely would have put pay to her already debatable buoyancy, we paddled on a little further and pitched camp on a deserted mid river island.

A tow from a narrow-boat; arguably the best way to enjoy the scenery

The Thames is relatively clean the further up river one gets. The next morning we found it quite bracing to take a quick dip and wash in the river before packing up the equipment and making our way through Eton, with its abundance of bankside rowing clubs, through Maidenhead, past the beautifully designed Cliveden country house on arguably the most beautiful stretch of the river, on towards Marlowe, where Shelley composed “The Revolt of Islam” and then on to Bisham Abbey, formerly a residence of the Knights Templars and Anne of Cleves and now seeing out its days as a National Sports Centre - quite a come down, we both agreed. Hurley lock is the last lock before Henley and it is one of the few locks that maintains a campsite on the river itself, ideal if like us you are unable to leave your craft securely moored to the banks with equipment stowed safely out of sight. For a £10 deposit and £7 a night, you can enjoy the pleasant rustic surroundings of Hurley lock and the even more inspiring Hurley village just a short walk from the lock itself with its delightful country properties, all with very handsome price-tags. The Rising Sun pub in the village provided us with decent food and good conversation with other river goers and we enjoyed the surroundings so much that we stayed another night at Hurley and spent the preceding day walking around Henley, soaking up the sights and sounds of the recently finished Regatta and paying £8 for a pot of tea and two slices of chocolate cake.

The river near Cliveden; picturesque and serene

The next morning we stumbled, quite by chance, across Lewis Pugh, the endurance swimmer who was attempting to swim the length of the Thames from source to mouth. We’d heard of his supposed endeavour as early as Penton Hook lock but wrote it off as a rumour started by some lock keeper who’d most probably told the skipper of a passing narrow-boat that some chap had swum across the river from bank to bank for a pint of Guiness, and over the course of the day his feat had been embellished through Chinese whispers to him swimming the length of the river for two pints. Suffice to say there was Lewis, in the flesh, WWF narrow-boat behind and a lone kayak guiding him through the currently clear waters of the upper Thames. Finding this stretch of the river to be exceptionally picturesque, we employed our mastery of river hitchhiking yet again and caught a tow from a lovely couple from Wigan and their Golden Retriever who sat Blithe-like at the stern of their vessel, quizzically casting suspicious looks upon, what he no doubt regarded as, the two potential mutineers being pulled along behind. Their narrow-boat was registered on the Bridgewater Canal and once our North-Western commonality had been established, we were well looked after with biscuits and chilled lemonade as we made fantastic progress through Reading, dodging thrill-seeking bridge jumpers and latent hippies who had all moored up for the Reading Festival with an array of non-indigenous botanicals growing atop their narrow-boats amongst the more traditional geraniums. We decided against mooring up and fraternising with the healthy selection of young women lining the banks and swimming in the river - we were, regrettably, eager to reach our destination that evening. As Jerome K Jerome himself said, “One does not linger in the neighbourhood of Reading.”

That evening we reached Pangbourne, a sleepy village about thirty-five miles downriver of Oxford. By now it was Friday evening and our transportation was due to arrive on Saturday afternoon, so we decided that our final destination would be the bridge at Wallingford, approximately fifteen miles up river. There are countless pubs and inns along the Thames, some on the river itself and some a short walk back into the villages that dot the banks. Two of these, The Bull and The Swan in Pangbourne, were overnight stops of Jerome K Jerome and his crew. Today The Bull ostensibly charges £180 a night for the privilege…. And it’s only a pub. Ravenous from our hard pull up from Reading, we dipped into The Star Inn for some overpriced and undercooked food before paddling back down river to find somewhere to camp for the night. This stretch of the river is conspicuously absent of any listed campsites so after having refused the offer of a spacious Edwardian back-garden to pitch our tent in from the local village eccentric, we cast off from Pangbourne bridge and headed back to a lama farm we had seen on the banks and where we had spied a serene and tranquil area to set up camp. Squadrons of ducks on night sorties and combat air patrols interrupted our sleep for most of the night, and at five o’clock I awoke to find a lama taking a keen interest in one of our hats we had left on a fence post. Still, the mist that shrouded the river against the silhouette of the hills as the sun rose behind added a genuine sense of natural beauty to our last morning on the river, and as a result we were both grateful we’d spent the night in the location we had.

Our last campsite, adjacent to a lama farm

From Pangbourne the river takes on a very repetitive tone. There is little differentiation in the foliage and only the pleasant and friendly village of Goring punctuates the monotony of the vegetation. There is even less wildlife to observe. The occasional swan swims past and given our state of hunger after a meagre breakfast, we both agreed it was lucky for the swan that he was Royally protected. If one wasn’t paddling away, such a scene would be the perfect idyll to while away the hours in solitude reflecting upon bygone times, hopes and dreams, loves lost and things which might have been but are not, confound them. As it was, our rhythmic paddling was only interrupted by the impromptu and somewhat rude departure of our map as it blew over board. The current dragged it under before we had chance to All Stop and engage reverse gear, but we only had a couple of miles to go before reaching Wallingford so assumed the map was quite happy to swim the rest of the way.
We approached Wallingford Bridge and passed underneath its arches before mooring up alongside a pub for a late lunch. Sunburnt, dishevelled and smelling like a cocktail of lamas and Piz Buin, we were graciously welcomed by some of the Saturday afternoon drinkers who all seemed very interested to learn of our voyage and how in only four and a half days two Mancunians with limited canoe experience had travelled from Kingston-Upon-Thames to Wallingford, a distance of almost ninety miles. Naturally we played down the role that other motorised craft played in our progress, more so when we were recounting our story to Wallingford’s female contingent.