Club Sea trip Dorset 6, 7, 8 June 2008
Nick Jacobs, Malcolm Hazleton, Liz Sheridan, Sean Foo, Martin Kelson and Justin Wyatt.
Friday 6 June
Dorset; the weather was kind, almost too kind. Five of us camped at Redcliffe Farm on Thursday night and Justin arrived at 8:30 after only two and a half hours on the road from London. The forecast via Portland coastguard was for NW winds, force 3 to 4, maybe rising to 6.
My earlier plans to paddle out of Lulworth, rockhop and explore caves etc were scuppered by the group’s desire (and surprising preparedness) to load the boats and go camping. Great! Redcliffe Farm is brilliantly placed for access to the Kimmeridge, Lulworth, Swanage area and we drove to Kimmeridge Bay to see what the sea looked like. Did I say preparedness? I meant they had the will but not the food, so first they went shopping, while I made a new tide plan.
The sea state was slight and the wind F3 or 4 so we planned a short paddle to test the conditions before making a firm decision on the camping idea. If we did go east and camp there would be no road for an easy escape. Before 12:30 live firing on Lulworth Ranges puts the area west of Kimmeridge out of bounds, so to kill half an hour rather than kayakers, we paddled straight out, into the slight swell and then back in again, getting a feel for wind and waves, not quite surfing. 12:30 had then passed and duly reassured we headed west round the distinctivly low, flat end of Broad Bench and along, close under the spectacular Gad Cliff, which gave some shelter from the wind. The tide against us was slight.
At Worbarrow Tout (it’s worth paddling here just for the place names!) we turned back to Brandy Bay for lunch. Justin (most recent 3-star) found he was working constantly in the following sea to correct his Aquanaut’s broaching and towards the end of the section the word skeg was mentioned as a likely solution. He’d had enough of the awkward sea for the notion to stick and he later applied it with almost magical results. Lesson learned; happy paddler!
Back at Kimmeridge we agreed the conditions were comfortable and the outlook benign. We loaded the boats and relaunched, heading east but still against the tide, which had turned at about 1330. It was interesting to paddle a fully loaded boat again, the waterline on my Romany just below the black tape between hull and deck. On the way we landed to prospect alternative campsites and photograph a waterfall but found nothing for anything but a bivvy. We reached our campsite in plenty of time to get settled in but before landing several of us tried rolling the loaded boats, it was pleasantly easy, I was expecting to have to adapt my technique but it came up sure and steady – next time rougher water! Without much swell the steep gravel beach was friendly and from experience and the evidence of the current high tides I felt happy to leave the boats at the back of the beach, the only risk being their possible burial by slumping cliffs. Liz and I left the chefs to do their worst and fished along the beach until summoned for supper by whistle and flag. I had caught and returned only a tiny pollack, scarcely larger than the lure. Wonderful pasta round a campfire, thousands of stars, deep contentment and a twinkle of anticipation for the trip to come. Marvellous!
Saturday 7 June
The tide turned before eight but I woke at five and went for a short walk with my fishing rod; nothing doing. Justin displayed admirable efficiency striking camp and despite my faffing around we were on the water before nine. The race off St Aldhelm’s Head was visibly lumpy off shore but with the slight sea and light wind, sneaking past inshore was easy, exposing us to nothing more than an accelerating current. The steady progression of cumulus suggested no imminent change.
When it’s calm and sunny the next five miles is hard to do quickly because the cliffs and caves demand attention. Had there been a swell reflecting off the cliffs we’d have been concentrating on the sea, but it was calm and delighful (again!). Small parties of guillimots flew out to sea, one led by a solitary puffin. There didn’t seem to be great interest in exploring caves but most on this stretch seem to be rectangular and man-made. In one I exited my boat and the group rescued me with a toggle tow then a towed T-rescue; good to remind us of the co-ordination needed to get paddlers back in their boats safely and quickly. I still hope to see dolphins here and although two pods have been seen this month, feeding on mackeral off Durlston Head, we saw nothing. After Durlston Head the cliffs taper down to Peveril Point. As the tide was flooding there was no race and while the others paddled in to Swanage for fish and chips, Malcolm and I stopped at the point for a chat with the Coast Watch volunteers in their lookout. It’s worth noting that this voluntary force monitor VHF but are not allowed to transmit – mobile phone would be the best way to have a conversation from a boat. They were welcoming, despite our dripping on their carpet, and explained how they would log the appearance of kayaks and then as we passed out of sight would alert the next Coast Watch station along. Knowing this it might be worth telling them if you intended to camp…just to avoid any ‘Oh my god, where have they gone?’ reactions when you fail to appear in the next ‘zone’.
After Swanage the cliffs are chalk, culminating in the drama of Old Harry and other towering stacks and unlikely pinnacles at The Foreland. There was just enough water for us to pick our way over the big white boulders at their feet rather than paddle round the lot…after which we were in Studland Bay, where the main danger is not grounding but being run over by blind sailors. I was nearly mown down by a yatch; despite Malcolm’s shouted warning I left it too late and then didn’t dare make a noise for fear of their sudden reaction. All I can suggest is paddling in compact groups and shouting or blowing a whistle as soon as you think an approaching boat might not have seen you. Across Studland Bay you can see the green-roofed Sandbanks hotel, a useful landmark at the harbout entrance, a mile away? The map says it’s three!
As the trip ‘leader’ my most interesting and challenging two minutes of the three days occurred at the harbour entrance. A fast and choppy tide was running out, exacerbated by the wind and by traffic of all sizes, moving both ways, some under sail. As we pulled out round the chain ferry that had just arrived on our side, the alarming bulk of a huge cross-channel ferry leaving the harbour bore down on us. I was suddenly concious that we were the tiniest of many assorted boats in a relatively narrow and rough channel. We couldn’t pull back into the shelter of the near bank because the tide was running under the stationary chain ferry – just like our regular Thames hazards. I’d not fully anticipated the combination of factors and by the time I fully realised the hazards, we were committed. I decided that I just had to lead the way; dropping back would cause confusion. I had unwittingly added to the dodgy situation by having chosen this section to be trying Malcolm’s ancient, skegless Nordkapp without footrests; an unfamiliar pig to manoeuvre in the wind and turbulent tide.
As we reached calmer water and headed for the nearest landing on Brownsea Island Malcolm voiced his relief to be able to see the side of the huge cross-channel ferry.
After our break the rest of the journey was into a F4 wind, about seven miles from the harbour entrance to our campsite and we landed again after only a couple of miles for another rest; twenty minutes on a couch of short, springy turf in the sunshine out of the wind. The so-called harbour is a shallow, inland sea with a transition from open water to mud flats and reed beds. As we neared the mouth of the river Frome extensive reed beds gave welcome shelter from the wind and our surroundings became increasingly intimate in character and scale, with moored boats and occasional jetties and landings until we arrived at Redcliffe Farm and its concrete slipway.
We were weary. Justin packed up and drove back to his London commitments. Malcolm and the others drove off to some far away country town for excitement and I cooked a meal and went to sleep under the stars and settling dew.
Sunday 8 June
Not an early start. Although the forecast was good and the sea slight, Sean decided it was a cycling day, not a paddling day. So he took Liz’s folding bike and cycled to the cake shop. Martin was unwell so he took some pills and lay down, leaving Malcolm, Liz and me to go on a gentle ock-hopping tour. Again we launched from Kimmeridge and paddled close in under the Gad Cliff for Malcolm to take some photos with the digital SLR he’d carried on the front deck for three days in a large Pelicase (bit of an encumberance). Liz rafted up with him and I held them both in position amongst the rocks, in the wind and gentle tide. We then paddled to the far end of Worbarrow Bay and landed for lunch at a small unpeopled beach of blindingly white stones. Although the tide turned against us the early flow was negligible as we wove our way back to Kimmeridge between boulders and pools, reluctant to actually finish the day for our inevitable early evening return to London.