Piddle (24 Feb 2008) |
 |
Just to clarify at the outset, this is not another of those articles about the latest dry suit technology, or about how to paddle through a hangover. Anyone searching for suchlike information, please to see the Scunthrop Thrimsby C.C. webpage. One mild day in March, Adrian, Mark, Phil and Sheila from Putney demonstrated that at least one good reason to join a canoe club is to have the opportunity of paddling the occasional river where hardly anyone ever goes, and to make the legendary River Piddle a respectable part of our paddling lore.
Referred to as a brook on the way there in the car, I listened nervously, trying to imagine what I was letting myself in for by paddling this river. A gentle slide into the softly flowing, ale coloured water below Cuckoo Pound for a start, heading into the first eddy between the most innocuous of fallen trees. Then a dreamy glide beneath the leafy canopy down the river to the first little bridge. Indeed, the Piddle is a small water and more than four paddlers could feel like a bit of a blockage. The banks of the first bridge were inhabited by one of a wearisome series of jealous landowners who made the most of our necessary portage by civilly warning us that we would be gobbled up, either by the forthcoming weirs or a trespassing lawsuit if we ever set foot on the bank again. A friendly interchange of irreconcilable views ended with us drifting off downstream to throw ourselves over the next weir, and shortly thereafter Phil and I found ourselves peering with trepidation over the brink of a small weir under a low bridge, wondering whether our fate would come from above or below. I watched as Phil headed first forwards and then sideways under the bridge, his helmet tapping an abortive staccato signal before he lay back to concentrate on dexterously probing the ceiling with his paddle. Plenty of time for reflection before you hit the wave. Blinking away the glassful of water thrown in my face, I found myself upright with my paddle in my hand, bouncing gently over a tiny wave train - nice, what fun! The day we went to the Piddle the levels were just right and we noticed how tastefully the architecture of its low stone bridges and weirs complemented the surrounding countryside, a well tended, meandering patchwork of lush green fields, elegant swans, lazily lounging sheep and fat, brooding cumulous clouds. Guided by Adrian and Mark, I rode the gleaming back of my first surf wave on the Piddle.
There were a few trials for us however. Apparently (definitely) where the eye goes the boat follows, getting myself stuck for a time as my mentors sat in the pool below, watching me waving sheepishly from half way up the weir. They seemed to be absorbed in quiet discussion, maybe they were taking up the theme of the daily play, settling down for a long wait. Or maybe trying to decide how many of the weirs they could shoot before returning to see if I had climbed back out over the bridge. But a kindly bridge rail took my hand and in another instant my boat had scooted off happily down the weir to rejoin its fellows. A little later, we came to a bridge with a scaffolding beneath it. Adrian immediately started underneath it, and as I watched in awe, began to fold up underneath the metal bars - being crushed beneath the combined weight of the scaffolding and the gathering waters? But what was this? Mark had disappeared as well! Amazed, Phil and I sat in our boats and stared down the now deserted river. Cautiously I crept closer and behold, I saw Mark framed in a side arch against a beautiful backdrop of marshland, smiling, with rays of sunlight breaking through the shady trees around his head. Had he been spared the grim scaffolding and beamed up directly to heaven, was this the beatification of a Putney paddler? And he was beckoning me into this third dimension! Just before I washed past it, I lurched down the drop and arrived bumpily but unbruised in the shallows on the other side, just in time to make way for Phil to do a considerably more dignified version immediately after me. Then we paddled through a jungly bit where we were guided through the branches of a fallen tree by a huge swan, thereby saving us from a bear shaped rotweiler who came trotting purposefully towards us in the hope of a game of fetch the paddle (or the paddler?)
After a time, we got out in the mud before portaging a more serious scaffolding under the final bridge and passed another wee while taking photos and bouncing around beneath the last and best weir, and it was so nice that I could have played there happily ever after. But alas, the afternoon was drawing to a close and it was time to carry our boats up the bank and go off for a beer.