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43 years ago I paddled a canoe along the canal from Exeter to Turf . I was one of three canoeists who set up camp on a small peninsula adjoining the Turf Hotel and pub.
In August 2003 my wife wanted to stay with her sister who lives near Exeter and since I was required to take her by car, the opportunity to reenact the cruise without my friends presented itself. Caleb was strapped to the car roof rack and to avoid peak traffic we left very early on the morning of Monday 18th for the 210 mile journey.
Apart from one jam on the M25 caused by road works all went smoothly, and having said farewell to my wife at her sister's place, Caleb and I arrived at the Exeter end of the canal where the canoe was made ready for the cruise. A kind lady in attendance at the Canal and River Office informed me there would be no charge for transit of the canal.
Before setting off from the pontoon I was somewhat surprised at the appearance of many young people paddling canoes under the supervision of instructors, but I didn't envy their task of imparting knowledge to such a boisterous collection, while at the same time endeavouring to control them. One lad managed to bump his canoe into the side of Caleb, whereupon his supervisor duly apologized while the miscreant giggled. No damage was done, so it was smiles all-round.
Over the course of time things have changed and my memory failed to register how many obstacles would need to be overcome before reaching Turf. The first obstruction was barely a quarter of a mile from the outset. It was a low swing bridge, which of course meant lowering the rig and ensign before we could pass. One very noticeable difference from years ago was the amount of very green small-leafed weed that covered much of the water's surface. Every few hundred yards I needed to lift the rudder to free accumulations of the trailing weed. Paddling was not too difficult, providing each blade was extracted from the water in such a way as to allow the weed to slide off.
It was such a lovely sunny afternoon in the middle of the school summer holidays, therefore many people were out-and-about. In addition to those on the water there were cyclists, hikers and fishermen at intervals along the towpath. I found one swan hiding behind some branches which had overgrown the canal bank. He had obviously had more than enough intrusion and was probably feeling the effects of the sun.
About mid-afternoon we came across Double Locks where there is a hotel. I made use of the toilet facilities before transporting the camping gear bit by bit around the locks. Each action was carried out in slow motion to conserve energy - first the gear, then the canoe carried on my hip. Eventually, after much perspiration, Caleb was back in her element fully loaded and looking rather pleased with herself, her ensign and pennant fluttering in the gentle, but welcome east breeze. Full sail was hoisted and we fair-scooted toward our objective. In fact the wind freshened, so a reef was taken in.
Having negotiated the old Countess Weir swing bridge I left the sail furled in the cockpit so that I could enjoy paddling with the benefit of the wind behind me. It was great fun to be paddling again this stretch of the canal, just as I did many years previously. This time I had a more sophisticated canoe with its own tent and even a GPS! The latter enabled me to see exactly how fast we were travelling - on average just under 3 knots.
At this stretch of water trees and hedges gave way to a more open vista where I could see green rolling Devonian hills and catch glimpses of colourful Topsham beyond the adjacent River Exe. It is indeed a lovely area. The further we travelled from Exeter, the less people we encountered. I breathed huge gulps of fresh air mildly mingled with a fragrance of water lilies and graceful reeds lining the water's edge. A sense of freedom that only those who cruise small boats experience, readily flowed into my soul. I was alive again! I was glad to be away from the difficulties of the past year, a time when my dear wife had suffered a stroke, but with all the loving help she received and her marvellous determination she made a good recovery, such that I could be on the water again.
As I was thinking how good life was my elation was heightened by the sight of a huge fish jumping clean out of the water. He somewhat noisily returned to his liquid domain causing ever increasing ripples to spread outwards from the spot until gradually subsiding without trace.
Having passed under the very high Exeter by-pass bridge, and being a quarter of mile nearer to Turf, we approached a much more open section of the canal. There was the old lock adjacent to Topsham. It had been shut by a barricade made of interlocking steel girders. For sentimental reasons and for curiosity I landed there. Years ago I had passed through the lock with my Hillyard sloop en route to Exeter where she was laid-up before being sold. What a shame economics had changed that peaceful spot on the canal. The lock keeper's house was boarded with secure shutters and barbed wire fringed hedges and walls, but the idyllic view of Topsham was as I remembered it.
Back in the canoe again I felt it was not worth raising the sail although there was a favourable wind. I was really enjoying the mechanics of paddling. We glided over a pattern of multiple ripplets. In the distance some masts and a clump of dark green trees were visible. They marked the objective of the day where I would set up camp. To my right a magnificent kestrel patiently searching for prey hovered above the canal bank, but not having found a succulent vole or water chick it wisely glided to another likely spot.
At 1850 we gently came alongside the floating pontoon at the Turf Hotel. Immediately a man dressed in cycling attire waited in attendance. His interest was evident. We chatted for a while and it transpired his name was Mike. His flat was at the old Brunel vacuum railway pumping station at Starcross where he said I could store my canoe if necessary. That would have enabled me to take the train to Exeter to collect the car. It was a kind act of friendship I remember with gratitude. He helped me carry Caleb, complete with her camping gear, to a spot on the hotel's lawn where the publican had given permission for me stay free of charge.
I quickly arranged Caleb's tent and prepared an evening meal, much to the interest of an attractive young lady with dark hair who was staying on a motor yacht moored by the pontoon. She informed me her husband had seen my arrival and that they wanted to provide me with toast and tea the following morning. I suppose seeing an elderly gent with white hair inspired their charitable act which I glady accepted.
Before turning in for the night I visited the bar at the hotel. While there for a non-alcoholic drink the young lady I had met before introduced me to her good husband and their small son. They lived up north and wanted to have their motor yacht transferred to a local canal. There were many visitors enjoying themselves while eating and drinking, but the barman assured me it was quiet by comparison with previous evenings.
When returning to the tent which was bathed in moonlight I felt a distinct, almost autumnal chill.
Next morning I woke at 0630, and feeling the need for a drink, I quickly brewed some tea on the tiny 'Gaz' stove. A large helping of muesli with marmalade on bread completed breakfast, but true to his word the dutiful 'waiter' from the motor yacht appeared with the promised cuppa. I didn't really want it since I had only a few moments before satisfied my thirst. However, to oblige my new friend I sipped the brew.
Since it was only 0715 there was a long time to wait until high water at about mid-day, when it would be possible to launch the canoe over a nearby, muddy bank beside the lock. Therefore I asked if I could see the motor yacht. It appears my friend had been quoted an exorbitant price to have the teak decks replaced. I advised him they were perfectly good, wanting only a firm scrub with fresh water, followed by a rinse with sea water to remove grime that had accumulated.
Having completed an inspection of the decks and offered advice about their renovation I used some time to thoroughly explore the Turf peninsula. Memories came flooding back about the occasion when with two companions I camped there in 1960. I observed that the conifer trees looked as they did 43 years before - maybe a bit larger - but the mud banks had receded from their retaining piles which were rotten. Another difference was the addition of a small children's adventure playground occupying what had been part of the main hotel lawn. Swans and wading birds were there as before, as was the magical tranquility of the place. Martyn, one of our camping party, had become poorly with flu, therefore he insisted I should take his place on a pre-arranged blind date at a Topsham pub. The plan was that he and Brian, our other companion, would paddle their canoes to Topsham where they would meet Grace, Brian's girlfriend, and her friend June.
Although I had a girlfriend, Martyn persuaded me to swap places with him. When at the pub I took an instant interest in June who had lovely dark skin and fine feminine features. We hit it off from the start. After closing time we said our farewells. The girls departed on the last bus and we canoeists took to the water. A fast flowing ebb aided us on our way. We had an exciting ride over rapids caused by the receding tide. The whole scene was illuminated with moonlight that perhaps played its romantic part with my thoughts as we returned to the camp site. Over the next few months June and I courted; we fell in love and married. Strangely, Martyn fell in love with the girl I had been going out with and they married.
I judged I would be able to launch Caleb about an hour before high water, probably without bringing any mud aboard - so it turned out. There was precious little wind from the north west, but nevertheless I hoisted sail in anticipation. Once we were clear of the lock the wind freshened and Caleb began to chuckle as she gathered speed. The breeze was short-lived, so I took to paddling the canoe over a dark brown, almost oily-like expanse of slowly moving water. Now and again we came across small patches of bulbous floating weed, the sort meteorologists have in their bedrooms. When it is dry and brittle they say there will be good weather and when it is soft they claim it will rain.
As we progressed downstream toward Starcross I could see Powderham Castle beyond a small wood that nestled near the shore where the local yacht club was. An express train noisily hurtled along the track only a stone's throw from the water's edge, but resident wading birds were not in the least concerned. When the train could be heard no more and Caleb passed close to the yacht club's slipway I observed a solitary individual there. He sat motionless like a wax figure, apparently in deep meditation while gazing without comprehension at Caleb and I.
I heard the approaching murmur of a vessel's engine and shortly the 'Tudor Rose', blazoned in bright advertisements inviting people to explore the wildlife and historic beauty of the River Exe, arrived on the scene.
When we were among the moorings at Starcross the wind piped-up to the extent that Caleb needed a reef, but it was impossible to put it in because of the proximity of boats. For some unaccountable reason, it did not occur to me to drop the sail entirely into the lazyjacks. I dangerously whizzed between craft while working across the ebbing current in the direction of some shallow water on the west side of the river. There I planned to reef, but it proved a little more difficult than should have been because for some unaccountable reason the upper batten caught on a lazyjack.
Soon I found Caleb racing downwind around the tip of Dawlish Warren sands. Once clear of the last spit of visible sand I brought her on a course parallel with the crowded beach of sun worshippers. The wind was suitably offshore. My GPS placed us on a black expanse of uncharted water, but there were no known hazards, except one or two minor rocks further along the coast. Our speed was just under three knots. I began to think Torbay or even Dartmouth may be within our grasp, but my judgment changed when the wind dropped to almost nothing. Teignmouth became my objective. Therefore I was quite happy to dawdle along, dipping a paddle in the blue water and occasionally flipping some drips on my shirt to cool me down.
Lunch was a leisurely affair. It was so calm I was able to spread butter on some bread; cut cheese and tomatoes to make a sandwich filling, then consume the lot.. A yoghurt, some chocolate and a banana, along with a drink of orange completed the repast.
The holiday resort of Dawlish was behind us as we approached a bluff of red sandstone through which were tunnels for trains. One noisily rocketed from a dark orifice busily thundering along the rail eastward, no doubt bound for very distant Paddington.
When the train could be heard no more and there was nothing but the soothing song of wavelets, my privacy was somewhat spoiled by an intrusive jet-ski creating a high-pitched whining sound. Its rider made fun for himself by churning around in circles, then criss-crossing the old wakes. There were a few buoys from crab pots nearby and I wondered if the intruder would get snarled up in them. A little further on we came near a pinnacle of sandstone standing erect from the sea which I remembered from the time I canoed there when a boy, but this navigation mark known as the 'Clerk', had been seriously eroded over a period of 55 years - a bit like myself!
At mid-afternoon the wind returned and there were some dark clouds to the south-west. I was fearful of a downpour which never materialized, but the wind increased to about a force two. That was right for full sail. I began to think Torbay may be a possibility. As the wind continued to increase, prudence dictated Teignmouth for a destination. Very soon the old iron pier was abeam. I knew there were some off-lying sandbanks beyond, and therefore headed more off-shore. Once upwind of the entrance where there is a steep cliff to the west I bore off for the opening. On the approach through the narrows against a fierce ebb I needed all my skill to work over it. Making things worse there were several runabouts with rod fishermen and one small trawler all trying their best to get a catch, but for me they were hazards around which I had to carefully pick a route. Eventually we ran out of wind which forced us to land on a beach comprised of brown course sand and pebbles.
I quietly congratulated myself on having made it to Teignmouth, but the remainder of the entrance had yet to be navigated. I walked along the beach to discover the best way. Since there was insufficient wind to sail I would have to paddle. It was not possible to wade at the water's edge while towing the canoe because there were many rod fisherman. I noted there was a submerged layer of weed-covered rock about 30 feet from the beach over which the opposing current ran more slowly. With the rudder and leeboard raised I would be able to skim above the rock, thus avoiding the faster currents either side. In practice it worked a treat. Once around the Point and into the main River, I was able to paddle near the beach, thus avoiding the worst of the ebb which was running at about 3 knots. Unexpectedly I found a group of people practising 'fast current rescue'. They were doing odd manoeuvres such as drifting on the ebb in their survival suits and rafting with inflatable dinghies.
My next consideration was where to set up camp for the night. On the Point itself by some beach huts was a possibility, but it seemed rather public. I preferred somewhere quieter, therefore I explored further along the estuary, but it was nearly low water and access to the shore was over soft mud. Beyond the road bridge to Shaldon there was a minute spot near the railway line where Caleb might be hauled to a point above high water, but I imagined how horrendous it would be trying to sleep there when every twenty or so minutes freight trains would thunder by.
In my search for a camping site it was very pleasant paddling Caleb between shoals of shingle as the gulls squabbled for territory and wading birds searched for food in the oosy mud at the river's edge. Boatmen plied to and fro on business or pleasure. There was a large green freighter docked downstream off-loading her gargo and beyond it a rectangular church tower highlighted in the sun while white fluffy clouds floated by contrasting with the stationary cobalt sky.
My mine made up, I headed back to the Point with the last of the ebb to help me. Numerous yachts and small craft had their moorings in the deeper water off the promontory. My course lay between them to make the best use of the current. On arrival at the Point a strong lad who was fascinated with Caleb helped me carry her to a flat spot at the top of the sloping beach where camp was to be made.
Once she was settled for the night I became aware of much noise around me. There were children running along the beach. Some explored the water and their rapturous cries shrieked unharmoniously with the raucous call of gulls in mortal combat over offal thrown into the river from the small trawler I had seen at the entrance when I arrived. I could hear booming from the freighter while her cargo was being off-loaded. Motor boats churned the water; there was a distant two-toned note of a train leaving the station; revving engines from the car park; a loudspeaker on the Shaldon shore and music from a funfair near the pier. What had I done to choose such a place!
Having eaten a rather tasteless pre-packed evening meal I set off for the railway station, bearing in mind that I could travel to Exeter St. Thomas the next day to collect my car which was parked nearby. That option meant I'd be able to take Caleb to Roadford Lake near Okehamton because tentative arrangements had been made to meet an old friend there with his paddling canoe. I also planned to meet an Internet acquaintance who owned a Rushton Princess sailing canoe. My search for the station was successful.
By the time I returned to the Point it was nearly dark, therefore I made ready for the night, and what a night! The children did not stop howling and playing mischief until midnight. Then there was a short spell of relative peace until a group of four or five youths turned up. They chatted rather loudly of their exploits with various girls and their under-achievements at school. One lad proclaimed his best bit of art was painting a picture of a banana smoking a monkey! In words which I would rather not repeat he expressed his desire to make love with his art teacher. One of the lads became cold because of the wind and he solved the problem by breaking into a beach hut for shelter.
It was 0130 before they gave up and went home, but after the noise and activity of the day I found it difficult to sleep.
On Wednesday morning, the 20th August, I arose shortly after sunrise at 0645. The ever-active gulls were enjoying their banter, while inshore fishermen set off to gather and set pots for a catch of fine West Country crabs and lobsters.
I improvised a dilapidated dinghy as a breakfast table. It also made an excellent wind shield for the stove which was used to boil water for a cuppa.
After breakfast I walked to the station where I caught the 0823 train for Exeter St. Thomas. With the help of my brother-in-law, Caleb was retrieved and we were back at his place by shortly after mid-day. There followed an interlude in the cruise until day four.
I was looking forward to Thursday the 21st August because I would see my good friend Harding Jenkins at Roadford Lake, a reservoir with a waterspout centre. The two mile long stretch of water was approximately 8 miles to the west of Okehamton, Devon. Facilities for launching comprised a concrete slipway, a floating pontoon and a muddy beach that had dried rock-hard in the long hot summer. One could bring boats by car to the very edge of the lake and there were excellent camping facilities, along with showers and changing rooms. The visitor's fee for a canoe to launch was £6.00. Included was a person on watch with a rescue craft in attendance throughout the day.
Many young people were being instructed in sailboard and dinghy sailing.
I arrived at the Centre's reception about 1130 where I met a friend of Jeremy Burnett, who had brought his home-built Rushton Princess sailing canoe. Jeremy had inspired me to come so that we might compare our canoes.
Harding turned up with his Ottersports paddling canoe. After introductions and discussions about various characteristics of our boats we sat on the grass and had picnic lunches while we admired the view across the lake. The weather was perfect for sailing - just a force 2, gusting to 3. The gusts made it all the more fun.
After lunch we paced our boats. The Rushton Princess with her long waterline and narrow beam was very fast, but despite her off-set centreboard did not point as high as Caleb. On balance they performed equally well, but I felt the Princess was rather too narrow for the 40 plus square feet of sail. Jeremy had to constantly balance her by hiking out and he had two mainsheets and a tiller to operate. By contrast, Caleb was easy to manage having only one batwing sail and a reverse tiller. Hiking was not necessary, simply sitting on the windward side of the cockpit bottom was sufficient.
While Harding had a go in Caleb I did some paddling in his canoe. I found the exercise very agreeable. It was great fun to paddle quietly and drift with the wind while watching various wild birds in the vicinity of the lake. Some baby ducklings were really cute, but their mother made sure they did not get too close to the canoe.
I had an exciting, shall I say almost terrifying sail in Jeremy's canoe. Sitting at the forward end of the cockpit I had no access to either of the sheets or tiller, therefore I was purely unmovable ballast. Twice the canoe was heeled alarmingly in gusts while Jeremy managed to keep her upright. I was drenched with spray and glad that I had worn a pair of waterproof trousers.
All afternoon we zipped over the lake, on the wind, off the wind and beam on. It was great fun, especially when other craft were around, such a the Hobie Cat belonging to Jeremy's friend. It really zoomed along with one hull clear of the water most of the time.
There was a beautifully crafted wooden steam launch that leisurely took passengers around the lake. At the end of the afternoon she came alongside the Centre's pontoon enabling me to have a close look at her. As I was doing so Jeremy approached the pontoon in his canoe, but unfortunately lost balance before making contact. Over went the Princess, and Jeremy was floundering in the water with his canoe on her side. She quickly filled with water but did not sink because of her bow and stern buoyancy chambers. The floorboards were loose and started floating around. I do not think Jeremy would have been able to get back in the canoe had she been in deep water. Fortunately it was shallow where she went over and the boat could be bailed while the crew stood beside her.
All in all, it was a very enjoyable and profitable afternoon's sailing and I counted the day well spent.
There was a little sadness in my heart because the meeting at Roadford Lake brought my cruise to an end, although the next day Caleb was taken all the way by road to Combwich in Somerset, so that another friend could see her in person. He was so taken with her that he intends to build a Selway-Fisher 50/50 for himself.
Bill. August, 2003.
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