Dart Weekend 2003
Helen Harris
I’d secured my place on the clubs 2003 Dart weekend. I’d listened carefully to Teresa’s instructions to take plate and cutlery and to Lisa G’s advise not to share a room with Conor or Pete Carter, they snore badly after beer. I’d even let my self be persuaded to share my new Kayaking friendly vehicle with some young Aussie bloke.
The weekend’s first surreal experience happened early, an encounter with an old Irish drunk in Bemie (Bedminister) who asked (whilst I strapped Aussie guy’s boat to the roof rack) are you going skydiving in America for the weekend? It was so obviously the case how could I have possibly though that I was going Kayaking.
I was unexpectedly glad to have the Aussie guy along as navigator (I always forget exactly how crap I am at finding my way in the dark). I proved my geographical incompetence immediately. “So where do you come from?” I ventured “Wellington” came the reply “Which part of Australia is that?” I queried “New Zealand” came the response. If the Kiwi bloke is a fair representative of his race they are useful and resilient people not only did he find the way and hand me cakes on command, that driving really burns up calories, he didn’t flinch when I manoeuvred slowly across three lanes, up hill in the wrong gear, narrowly missing another vehicle.
The bunkhouse is a rudimentary affair but not without charm. A large living, eating kitchen area featuring huge Thomas the Tank style boiler set into the wall, large range, three substantial picnic tables and miniscule TV on which to watch that all important Rugby win against the Aussies (how fortunate that car share bloke didn’t have to support the losing team). The sleeping area is divided in two by partition and contained numerous rickety bunks rescued from the dorms of the closed naughty boys school I should guess. The two bed chambers had been named by the advance party as ‘The Real Men’s Room’ and ‘The Beautiful People’s Room’. Late arrival found ‘The Beautiful People’s’ room full and therefore no chance of acting on Lisa G’s advice. Two showers and three loos, one with a tree growing through the wall completed the amenities.
The local hostelry was most welcoming to the club and able to hide us away in a bit of a room at the end of bar just by the ladies loos. It was here that Tony made certain that each paddler made their contribution of £1 and drew the name of another from the hat. The rules of this game are quite simple the holder of the name of the paddler first to swim on the following day would have all their drinks paid for the following evening, only catch the choice of drink is made by committee. Oh happiness to draw ‘Robin’ from the hat, but poor Teresa to pull ‘Helen’, it would be a most anxious paddle.
With a superb cooked breakfast and thrilling win against the Aussies on board we were bound to have a good days paddle on the Dart Loop even if the water level was decidedly low. The club had mustered a crew large enough to divide into two groups and the less experienced paddlers were divided between them. Who would swim first? Who would suffer the ‘Mother of all Hangovers’? A certain air of anxiety prevailed and Teresa carefully chaperoned my progress down stream. The risk of an early swim had to be avoided and chaining me to rocks at play spots was certainly considered even if reluctantly dismissed due to lack of chain.
Suddenly the worry was over we had unexpectedly caught up with the other group. What joy, what relief they were rescuing a swimmer, PC could look forward to free drinks all night and the play ban was lifted with immediate effect.
Though the river level was low and there were plenty of rocks to avoid we were not alone on the Loop. Some of the play spots were a little over subscribed. Who is that on the bank at Triple Falls a man of substantial girth in neoprene the spit of a fellow from Marlow Canoe Club that Teresa and I had met on the Wye. Well it would have been rude not to say hello. Fellow not from Marlow but one of a noble band known as ‘The Weymouth Life Savers’ suddenly they emerged from the white water and we were surrounded and briefly entertained by tales of daring rescues. How sweet the pleasure of a brief encounter?
With play ban lifted I foolishly practice some ferry gliding and breaking in and out avoiding the men and boys as they are over any play spot like a rash is always a priority instead I collide with Teresa and swim. So where are the men of the Weymouth Life Savers when you need them? Recounting tales of daring rescues to other lady paddler’s no doubt. Conor and Robin are left to rescue me and Conor kindly explains than play swims don’t really count, excellent news.
The river is stunningly beautiful in its winter livery muted greys, browns and mossy greens all around. A truly lovely paddle.
The club crew like the tide ebbs and flows some stay on, some go and others arrive. All play their part and the changes are seamless. Tony may have left early but Pete’s fate had been sealed.
I am struck that Paddler’s are general interested and interesting personalities with more than one passion, Conor is no exception amongst other things he has a fascination with beer particularly the real ale stuff. What better entertainment than to check out one or two listings in the ‘Real Ale Guide’ and fortunately Theresa drives a bus, no one need be left out unless they need to catch up on their sleep Mr Jones.
The Guide’s listing for The White Hart Buckleigh can now be annotated to mention the enthusiastic locals and the ‘Tate’ style brick on the bar. The Sam’s cider being served was very excellent, as a responsible adult I didn’t let our Sam have any, and forced the lot down my own neck. On leaving I noticed a man standing stock still on the edge of the town’s bridge, how strange, made brave by Sam’s Cider I had to investigate. Thankfully he was night fishing rod in hand. The next offering from the Guide, The Abbey Well Inn Buckleigh Fast boasted its own family of Otters and a Bat Cave for our Robin.
Meanwhile the club members heaped on Pete the spoils of his win including ginger wine, baileys and a ‘ Black Russian with an Irish Top’ recipe curtsey of the club’s Domestic Goddess Lisa F. Rising to the challenge with aplomb Pete remained up right at all times, reasonably coherent and avoided the public barf. A true professional!
Drifting off to sleep for a second night in the rickety bunk to the noise of the ponies in the neighbouring stable and the wind catching the corrugated roofing. Maybe it was my dream or maybe that last glass of whisky but could I hear snoring from the ‘Beautiful People’s Room’ and surely Jim didn’t really rush in break wind and leave or did he?
A depleted but not disheartened crew made the last paddle. Some understandably fragile trekked homewards, Mr Jones alerted to the perils of a fuel leak was forced to wait for a knight (of the road) and others chose to walk. The river hardly altered by the night’s rain bore us few along, rattling us over its rocky bed. Today the river was more sombre, quieter, cooler no others to meet on its banks or to compete with on its play spots.
If the atmosphere of the river was slightly melancholic it didn’t touch the wild spirit of Kiwi Nick, unless it was simple death wish that led him first to emulate John L’s mega seal launch of the previous day and at Lover’s Leap to re-enacting the jump from the cliff witnessed by the club’s advance party. That Conor assisted by marking the large rock lying just below the surface did nothing to reduce my anxieties, which I confided in Robin and Avis. Robin could not recall exactly how long the average fatal accident inquest and coroner’s inquiry took but he was certain it was a time consuming process. Avis told how a young car sharing chap had been injured on a trip involving her in not only a visit to A & E but in providing accommodation and care during his recovery. I can be accused of many things but an aspirant Florence Nightingale is not one of them and I was very much relieved that Nick’s risk assessment proved accurate.
Paddling two days in succession, the gaiety of communal living and a rickety bunk are tiring for the habitually desk bound and I am no exception. In this circumstance I was most grateful for the loan of Jen’s pogies, a pair of my own would feature at the top of my Christmas list. However, the penultimate weir would claim me as its rather tired swimmer and still no sign of the Weymouth Life Savers what has a girl got to do? Fortunately Robin and Jim are more reliable and Conor assured me that tired swims don’t count either horaah.
-THE END-
The resemblance of any of the above characters to members of the club is not coincidental and entirely intentional.
Helen Harris