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| Reviews & Photos | Barle 26-28 November 2004 | |||||
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We fools were ready to go again. On Friday, November 26th, the Sussex Uni Kayak club loaded up the minibus and trailer, double-checked the tape deck was broken, and zoomed off towards the little town of Dulverton, nestled in the Exmoor countryside.
Oblivious to the fact that God was watching over us on our way, we safely arrived at our Church-managed bunkhouse just after last orders. Under the watchful eye of the crucifixes that adorned each and every room in the bunkhouse, 21 kayakers proceeded to get to know each other. Besides the ever-effective part played by alcohol, the getting-to-know-each-other turned out to be a rather physically active affair, leaving many of us with bruises, and sore arms and legs. You decide what we got up to. Eventually, Saturday morning came round and we gingerly (for those with hangovers, bruises and torn muscles) made our way down to the Tarr Steps on the River Barle to start the ten-mile ride downstream. As usual, the club made sure that beginners were paired up with the more experienced paddlers, and the individual groups launched their boats and took off. Coming in at about Grade 2-3, the descent was probably a bit easy-going for the more experienced, but covered a good dose of rapids and flat water for those eager to boost their confidence. Not that there was anything to be apprehensive about, as the descent went smoothly, with only one or two swims. A swim, by the way, is not a relaxing breast stroke amongst the ducks, but an annoyingly, albeit perfectly safe, capsizing of the boat that almost inevitably involves getting cold and wet. We like to avoid that. Oh, and we also like to avoid trees. Definitely avoid the trees. They may appear to be strong and solid, your lifeline to the secure banks and a tranquil spot to rest, but that is, to put it bluntly, entirely and utterly wrong, false, erroneous, incorrect rubbish. 'Rocks are your friend, trees are your enemy', 'Rocks are your friend, trees are your enemy'. Although that advice may ring somewhat counterintuitive to playground experience, its validity cannot be overstated. Imagine the scenario: you've just gone down a rapid, and hug a tree out of sheer joy that you're nice and dry. While you're resting and hugging the tree branch that is conveniently hanging out over the water, the river continues to flow, pushing water up against the edge of the boat, trying to move it downstream. Now, if you don't let go of that friendly tree and obey the river, you're going under baby. Which was exactly what you wanted to avoid in the first place. So, to recapitulate: trees bad, rocks good. Despite rocks, trees and flowing water, we all made it to the first day's end destination, which was conveniently located a few minutes' walk away from our bunkhouse. The challenge: strip off your wetsuit as quickly as possible, get warm and relax before the evening's entertainment (more booze). To kill time, some of us meandered around Dulverton, which only took about two minutes. I jest, of course, as there were plenty of quaint touristy shops selling pretty-looking, but entirely useless, dust-collecting and expensive trinkets. The shopping experience did, however, serve as an interesting reminder of the fact that we were in pro-hunting territory, as the locals in the pub later on in the evening were keen to discuss. Romantic oil paintings of beagles, foxes and hunters certainly brought the message across: we here like to hunt. And so that evening in a local pub managed by a former Hove resident, in between rounds of random shots, gammon steak, arm-wrestling, and Hastings folk dancing, a few locals defended the relationship between hunting and the local economy and culture. The evening couldn't get too serious however, because we had important challenges to meet: how many people can we stuff into an old-fashioned red telephone box? Pursuing the strategy of 'fat people on the bottom, thin people up top and get your foot out of my face', we managed to stuff nine people in, shut the door and try to make a 20p phone call to celebrate the moment. Unfortunately, we were denied the full glory by the outrageous hike in the price for local phone calls, which now comes up to a whole 30p. Is there a club out there that is rich and clever (thin) enough to beat our 9-in-a-phone-box-failed-20p-phone-call feat? Sunday was a sunnier, and colder day for kayaking, but with the prospect of a pub lunch at the end of the six-mile descent, nothing could hold us back. A few games to warm up our sore bodies, and off we went for a splendid day of paddling and sunshine. There were a few trickier spots at weirs where the more experienced showed off their skills and played around, but otherwise it was another fun day of straightforward but exciting kayaking. The perfect river trip to get the juices flowing for more! In summary, I rest my case: from crude Christmas carols on the minibus, table climbing, intimate pile-ups in phone boxes and licking cornflake boxes, to the beautiful Exmoor countryside, the outdoors, a kayak, whitewater, pub food and beer, the Kayak Club's River Barle trip was, well, 'sweet'. By Sue Rust |