You can now find me on ollydavy.com

You can now find me on ollydavy.com 

Rehabilitation

‘But haven’t we stopped evolving?’

My sister’s proposition provoked our thoughts as we strolled from the cinema discussing Lucy, the recently released sci-fi blockbuster. Her argument ran as follows: the developed world is insulated from the sculpting forces of nature by medicine and technology, meaning we no longer have to adapt to our environment. In other words, has progress put the kibosh on Darwin’s theory? 

Perhaps not, I suggested. If as a species we survive the millennia necessary for the changes to become apparent, will we not evolve to operate better within a digital world? Our brains will become larger to handle vast amounts of data, while our legs and arms, rendered almost unnecessary by the legions of technological aids at our disposal, will wither to pathetic protrusions capable only of pressing buttons. 

Personally I find this a hellish prospect. It made me consider my own body; its potential and its frailties, and my oscillation between fitness and injury during my adult life. Although I will not be around when the marriage between man and machine is ratified and we are reduced to blobs carried by robots, like Krang in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I want to make the most of my natural abilities before we forget how to do things for ourselves. 

In 2003 I was hit by a car and later I had surgery to repair ligament damage in my right knee. The only benefit of this accident was that, despite my junior position, my boss at the media company where I worked arranged for me to be driven to and from the office. For two weeks I made the journey from Crouch End to Leicester Square and back in air-conditioned comfort, entertained by the driver’s gossip about the XFM DJs he usually ferried. The perk was curtailed when I abused it by arranging detours to the pub. On crutches, the Northern Line had never seemed worse.  

After the operation came physiotherapy. At the time I was complacent about my body and its functions. I was not motivated to dedicate myself to an exercise regime, which I viewed as a chore. Time, and fresh injuries, have changed my outlook.

In 2012, to give myself focus after the death of my mother, I hurled myself into training for a triathlon. The experience was hugely rewarding and the link between physical and mental wellbeing was etched on my psyche. After the post-race come down I joined a running club and was excited about the prospect of completing more events. I was gutted when I began to experience intense pain in my knees after upgrading from £40 running shoes to an expensive pair specially fitted for my gait. Curse you, well-known high street running store. 

I stopped running, had more physiotherapy and an MRI scan on both knees. I was relieved when it came back all clear as I was not thrilled by the thought of another operation. Then I crashed while cycling. One should never attempt to carry a clothes maid while using a fixed gear bike. Tangling the two, I stopped instantly, flew over the handlebars and landed heavily on tarmac. Following the accident my left knee swelled up like a melon and in the weeks afterwards it was painful to ride and walk. Running was out of the question. 

That was 6 months ago. Yesterday I ran 1.3km on the treadmill. It doesn’t sound like much but after half a year of gym visits, and thousands of repetitions of mind-numbing strengthening exercises, I feel like I am on the threshold of recovery. I am daring to dream of triathlons once more. 

There are two main reasons why I have been dedicated to rehabilitation in a way that was unthinkable after my operation several years ago. 

I realise my potential. And I want to get back to full fitness to make the most of it. 
I realise my transience. This made sound dramatic but I will get old (hopefully) and I will die (definitely). So I want to enjoy the years when I can run, swim, hike and be in the physical world. 

These realisations helped me to prioritise my health. This was important in coming to terms with one of the obstacles to recovery: cost. Excellent free physiotherapy is available on the NHS but this overstretched service is not designed to cater for those who are greedy for the thrill of endurance racing. It will mend you enough to ensure you can walk to the shops, it won’t set up you up to take on an Ironman. It is absurd that I had no problem splashing £70 on a pair of jeans or a meal but baulked at spending the same on a session of physiotherapy. Surely nothing is more important than your body? I shifted my perception, deciding it was an investment in my future happiness and therefore worth every penny. 

The posing, pouting, and puffing world of the gym, interspersed with monthly check ups, have been an important part of my life this year and will be for many more months to come. But I feel it is my responsibility to take care of myself while I am in reasonable condition, before age ravages me, or I am shoved into the belly of an android. 

I am inspired by those who overcome the severest impediments to create and add to the stock of human understanding. Consider Jean-Dominique Bauby, who following a massive stroke found himself paralysed from head to toe and speechless; his mind functioning perfectly but imprisoned in a useless body. I don't think I would have the mental strength to cope with such a dramatic altering of life. But he did. He dictated a book entirely by blinking: one blink for A, twenty six blinks for Z. Can you imagine?

I won’t experience a future where humans are unable to operate without micro chips and transistors. Thankfully, in 2014 we can still choose to be independent of technology and make the most of nature’s gifts. Faced with the humbling resilience of people like Jean-Dominique Bauby, I believe I have no excuse to take my body for granted. 

The last Golden Eagle in England

Have you ever encountered Jive Bars? If not I’ll warn you now, they are not rhyming boasts uttered by a 1970s pimp. They’re Twixes. The name might be copyrighted but the delicious combination of biscuit, chocolate and caramel is not and they sell them in Aldi. 

The other foolproof method for choosing trekking supplies, apart from the name, is weight. Heft an item in your hand and you will know instantly if its calorific content is sufficient to justify its place in your pack. Blocks of mature cheddar and slabs of moist fruit cake will sail through this stringent selection process. Rice cakes will not.

Having wrestled free of our urban schedules, and suitably provisioned, the three of us were eager to begin our long weekend in the Lake District by rejecting the dullness of flat walking. Up is the only way to go, where lungs strain and calf muscles burn; where sweat runs into your eyes and huge views are revealed like an almighty carpet seller unrolling his finest wares. 

The afternoon began as a warm up for the longer hikes and wild camp we had planned for the following days but when we arrived at Haweswater, a reservoir in the eastern part of the Lake District, and saw the sign proclaiming ‘Home of the Last Golden Eagle in England’, we knew we had a higher purpose.

The car park was full. We weren't the only ones keen to immerse ourselves in the fens and hopefully catch a glimpse of the largest bird in the UK. Thankfully we had free reign over the landscape as most of the other visitors were suffering from an affliction common to beauty spots throughout the world. B.A.D., or Boomerang Automobile Deficiency, to give it its full name, is highly contagious but not fatal. It causes in the sufferer a complete inability to venture more than 200m from the car park without rapidly turning around and heading back to the safety of the vehicle for snacks and texting.

With fresh legs and a buoyant mood we began the steady climb along the spine of the fen leading up and away from the pinewoods and water towards a ridge 600m above. There was the familiar sense of liberation and relief; mental clutter falling aside leaving only the simple task of getting from A to B under your own steam. 

Stepping over loose rocks and squelching through mud we gradually gained the height necessary to read the land around us. We began to see how one slope flowed into the next and how the ridges ran between the peaks offering a highway through the hills. Looking back, the reservoir lay in the basin of the valley, sparkling at the sky like a dropped mirror. 

At regular intervals we stopped to scan our surroundings with binoculars, hoping we might get lucky and cop an eyeful of the majestic raptor on the wing. Moss-covered drystone walls ran across improbable gradients where dishevelled sheep rummaged in the bracken. Shifting clouds chased their shadows over the steep, sparse slopes of the valley, tricking the eye. But there was no eagle.

We reached the summit, High Street, the site of a Roman road at 828m above sea level. It was easy to imagine the cumbersome wheels of carts rattling food and soldiers between forts many centuries before. The Lake District was spread out before us; Ullswater to the north, Lake Windermere to the south and the Irish Sea just visible beyond the higher peaks to the west. At the trig point we celebrated with a dram from the hip flask before beginning the descent to a small tarn we had spotted nestling in the folds of the fen.

The summit of High Street

Small Water, where we swam, with Haweswater in the distance

Eschewing the path we slipped and slid the quickest route down. Hearing the tinkling of a spring we stopped to peel back clods of sodden moss, revealing the crystal-fresh liquid and refilling our water bottles. On the gravel bank we threw off our clothes and plunged in with yelps of shock. Our limbs quickly became heavy in the cold and submerging one’s head was a fast-track to brain freeze. The swim was brief but exhilarating. 

Evening was seeping into the valley as we walked the final couple of miles back to the car park. The sun had packed off behind the hill, taking the birdsong with it and an unseen hand was turning down the brightness until colours faded and the edges of woods and water became blurred. We left the Haweswater valley to its feathered guardian and drove into the night, chatting excitedly about the days ahead.

Olly Davy on...The Gym

The gym is a con that is reinforcing a dysfunctional relationship with our bodies. It’s time to ditch the dumbbells and rediscover other ways to stay healthy. 

I first experienced the gym when I was 13. My PE teacher, Mr Johnson, was a huge man whose lifetime of training and operations had left him with no cartilage in his knees and a penchant for intimidating teenagers. During our ‘induction’, presumably to terrify us into obedience, he sat down at the leg press machine, ordered two students to stand on top of the stack of weights, and proceeded to lift the whole lot several times. The combined total would have been nearly 300kg, equivalent to three fully grown Giant Pandas. I was so impressed by this show of strength that I didn’t set foot inside a gym for another 10 years.

But don’t let me put you off. In fact, it’s unlikely to because more than 4.4 million adults in Britain belong to a gym and the fitness industry is worth £3.92 billion. Despite this, most people who join in January having overindulged at Christmas are unlikely to be attending a few months later. We waste £37 million a year on unused memberships. So why does our unhealthy relationship with these sweat boxes persist? Perhaps our motivations are not as noble as we think.

In the age of the selfie and TV shows like Embarrassing Bodies, it’s undeniable that we are obsessed, and often unhappy, with how we look. Where there is dissatisfaction there is money to be made and in true capitalist fashion the fitness industry is only too pleased to exploit our insecurities, disguising the desperate quest for a flatter stomach as ‘health and wellbeing’.

What’s worse is that we fall for the con like suckers. When I was inducted for the second time in my life, signing up on the orders of my physiotherapist, the helpful staff member spun the virtues of the establishment with Malcolm Tucker like alacrity:

‘Training outside is dangerous. What happens if you’re running and sprain an ankle? You might not have mobile reception. You might not even have your mobile!’

Good god, man. You’re right. I must immediately barricade myself indoors where I have full access to communication technology and no chance of jogging injuries.

I love exercising outside; to feel the sun, or more often rain, on my face; to suck in lungfuls of fresh air, well, air at least. It reminds me that I am alive. Exercise should not be feared, it can even be enjoyed. We don’t need arms like Arnie or the ass of Kim Kardashian. No one does. Except perhaps the aforementioned. It would be cruel to deny them body parts just to illustrate a point. 

Free exercise options abound, a fact that Fitness Ltd would rather we forgot. How about walking to work, cycling in the park or pushing bags of compost around B&Q? An active lifestyle won’t necessarily give you a six-pack but it will help you stay healthy. 

I’ll probably keep my gym membership, because I like playing squash. But I won’t bother with the Stairmaster, I’ll just take the stairs.

A Walk in the Woods

The cabin stood at 1,500m in a cloud, battered by wind sweeping up from an unseen valley. We made our way out of the forest towards the stone refuge. Soaked and hungry, we were glad of the shelter. We had not seen anyone for hours but inside there was eery evidence of human activity; a newspaper dated two weeks before and half-burnt logs in the fireplace.

We had climbed into the Pyrenees from the village of Saint-Pe-D’ardet in the Haute-Garonne region of South West France, through thick stands of fir, pine and beech. On an overcast day the views to snowcapped peaks were absent so we turned our eyes down, to the delights blooming in the undergrowth; dog roses, cow parsley, hellebores and wild strawberries - delicate splashes of colour on the carpet of green.

With it’s deep quiet, the forest felt like a forbidden place. I imagined we were downed airmen escaping occupied France during the Second Wold War. The secret paths of the mountains bordering Spain, such as the Freedom Trail twenty km to the east, offered salvation to thousands of such fugitives. 

We stomped upwards through the soggy shroud of mist. I peered at the laminated map folded many times over by other walkers, and my notes, scrawled on a piece of scrap paper. I wondered if the weather worsened would the notes become illegible, stranding us on the slope. 

At the cabin we had to make a call; to the summit or not? We looked at the vague impression of a path disappearing into the cloud and decided not to risk a snapped ankle for the sake of another glimpse inside cotton wool. 

Descending, we slid on muddy rocks next to a creek. The tumbling torrent played its gentle music to the trees. We passed a ramshackle hut containing a homemade stove where there were used shotgun cartridges strewn about. Nearby, a ladder rose high into the canopy. A treehouse was visible, luring me with the promise of spectacular vistas. I climbed ten rungs or so and the ladder creaked alarmingly. The construction had probably not been used since the previous autumn’s pigeon hunting season and was badly in need of maintenance.

Traditional pigeon hunting still exists in the Pyrenees. Decoys are thrown towards the masses of birds flying low across the mountains on their migration. Reacting as if under attack, the pigeons dive lower and straight into nets strung across narrow gorges. Thousands of birds can be caught without a shot being fired. The hunters get a better price for those left alive. 

The next day, 100km to the east, we stood under a blue sky on the shores of Lac du Montbel. Sparrows darted about our heads, tireless despite the heat. To the north, the ragged line of Pyrenean peaks was clearly visible, rising and falling above the landscape like ocean swell, their snow dusted summits like foamy crests.

The Pyrenees, seen from Lac du Montbel, SW France

Mr Sandman, bring me a dream...

Buying a flat has broadened my horizons. I have spent a Friday evening at DFS (walked away empty handed - I’m not quite ready for a cream leather sofa) and tackled a dead pigeon in the chimney (poked it back up and forgot about it). But the real excitement is DIY. To look on a newly installed bookshelf/toilet roll holder/machine gun emplacement, and say, ‘I did that,’ is a source of pride and satisfaction. Or shame and embarrassment, depending how it goes. Spilling your blood, sweat and tears on the pile of bricks and mortar you are now financially chained to creates a real feeling of ownership. As if by drilling into its masonry and painting its surfaces you are showing it who is in charge. ‘Take that!’ I cry, while fixing a cabinet to the bathroom wall. ‘You are not the boss of me!’

Out with the old

The floorboards in the bedroom had been finished with a deep brown stain by the previous owners. ‘It’ll be nice to paint them,’ we thought. We decided on a calming green. I did my research and set about the project with gusto, starting with hiring heavy duty sanders to strip the boards.

Anyone who has used a floor sander knows it is a beast imbued with satanic power. Once turned on, it revs into life with a screech like a banshee marshalling the forces of darkness. With barely contained fire in its metallic belly the machine tears into floorboards like a starved hyena locked in a cupboard with a zebra foal. These things could smooth out mountain ranges. Without physical restraint it will run away from you, smash through walls as if they’re made of Wotsits and drag you into your neighbours’ lunch. 

No pain, no gain

With ear plugs in and dust mask on, I sweated through 7 hours of back-breaking labour. The edging sander is designed to get in close to skirting boards, and also to cripple human beings. It is about 50cm high and heavy, shuddering with power. To operate, you hold it firmly and lower yourself into a squat. The kind of position you might adopt to strangle someone lying on the floor. From there you shuffle around the room, led by the furious device, feeling the muscles around your spine contracting by the minute. 

As the dust settled and the ringing in my ears subsided, I surveyed my handiwork. The natural beauty of the wood had been revealed once more. I toasted my efforts with a Polish lager and patted the still warm sanders with satisfaction. They glared back at me, red eyes glowing.

The next stage of the project began on a Monday. Painting 16 square metres of floorboard with a brush took two hours and with the sun shining through the window and Wimbledon on Radio 5 Live it was not an unpleasant task. I responded to Claire Balding’s request and Tweeted a photo of myself and the half-painted floor, #mywimbledonseat. I was abused by wood purists, complete strangers who assailed me for ruining ‘those wonderful boards’ with paint. Who knew you could be trolled for home improvements?

#mywimbledonseat

On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I applied the green floor paint - thinly, with a brush, allowing 24 hours between coats. With each layer the colour deepened, gradually assuming its final gentle richness.

One step too far

Thoroughness dictated that I should protect the floor with a final coat of clear varnish, to ensure the floor stays lovely for years to come. This stage is not essential but I imagined it would be infuriating to watch paint chip away with use simply because I had not done two more hours work. 

The varnish went on. I cleaned my brushes and left the house. When I returned after several hours the result was not what I had expected. The supposedly clear varnish had dried yellow, like streaks of piss, ruining the paint job. I felt like I was seeing my beloved floor through a pair of those tinted glasses so beloved of perverts and Bono.

‘It must not be fully dry,’ I thought to myself, hopefully. The next morning there was no improvement. If anything, it was worse. 

I showed the result to my girlfriend. I was firmly in the second stage of grief, denial, and reluctant to countenance the notion that it would have to be rectified. It was only by her coaxing that I came to see the truth. The rancid stains would annoy us for as long as we live in the flat. Action had to be taken. 

Destroying a week’s work is not a satisfying experience. The sander ripped through the paint all too easily and at the end of the day I was back where I had started. I was hot, tired and depressed. I made one final pass with the edging sander, removing the last of the green paint. I was jostling the machine close to the skirting boards underneath the radiator when a jet of water shot across the room. The sander’s spinning disc had sliced through the copper pipe sticking out of the floor. In panic, I shouted to my girlfriend.

‘Can you come here now please!’

She ran like a paramedic to a train crash. Perhaps the sander has ripped off his arm, she thought. It was much worse than that. After blasting brown liquid onto the freshly painted walls, the pressure had subsided somewhat but water was still flowing freely, soaking the floor. We relayed the mop bucket and washing up basin back and forth, emptying them into the bath, until the leak reduced to dribble, and then stopped.

All above board

The plumber came the next day, repairing the damage in exchange for wads of cash. Once dry, apart from the spots of paint lurking in gaps inaccessible to even the ravenous floor sander, the bare wood looked as good as the first time. I bought some quick-drying varnish, non-yellowing, and put on three coats in a day. Now it’s done and I will not touch the floor again, even if a priceless hoard of Viking treasure is tracked to the recess beneath it.

I have climbed a steep learning curve, with the occasional dramatic slip to keep things interesting. Thanks to the energy expended the flat does feel more like a home. I Tweeted a picture of the varnished boards to the stranger who had mocked me for vandalising them. He didn’t reply, but I know he’s out there, chuckling smugly. 

The River and Sea are One

We spread mum’s ashes in the River Wharfe at Burnsall, North Yorkshire. We found a quiet spot, undisturbed by walkers and dogs, where an overgrown island divides the water into two channels, making it run quickly over the rocks. The music of the river accompanied the scene of drooping willow trees caressing the ripples and a thousand shades of green fractured by intermittent rays of sun. 

I read on ‘On Death’ by Kihlal Gibran and was pleased with the line ‘just as the river and sea are one.’ It felt right that Mum’s remains would enter the eternal cycle, flowing to the ocean, evaporating into the clouds and then falling as rain on the mountains, before returning to the spot where we stood. The sense of movement was important, a current and a breeze, to help her on the way. 

The peace that follows an outpouring of grief settled on our small group. We spread a picnic blanket on the uneven bank and, harassed by midges, ate strawberries and drank Prosecco from plastic tumblers. 

The cork, fired skyward, landed among rocks at the water’s edge and lodged there. Suddenly all our attention was focused on this small object bobbing obstinately out of reach. It became symbolic of mum’s passing and her journey to the beyond. Nature heard our silent prayers, a duck appeared and freed the cork with her furious pecking. 

We threw the strawberry tops into the river where they were gobbled up by the same duck who pounced on the morsels before they were swept away by the current. She stuck near to the bank where the water was slower, all the better to grab our cast offs. Once or twice a greedy lunge launched her into the faster flowing water and she was swept downstream, backwards. She seemed unconcerned, expertly surfing the rolling flow until she could exit, like stepping off a travelator at the airport, and paddle back to us. 

The ceremony, which took place the day after our granddad’s (mum’s dad) funeral and a few days before the 2nd anniversary of her death, was an important milestone. I still get a shock when I open my wallet, see her picture and remember that she is gone. But by sharing grief, one can process it better and begin to accept what cannot be changed. 

Bridge over the River Wharfe at Burnsall, North Yorkshire

The Hand of Satan

I stared at the computer. The red text box stared back at me, its unambiguous wording refusing to budge – CALL AN AMBULANCE. If I was having a heart attack it would be sensible to follow the NHS Direct website’s instructions. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

When I woke the chest pain was still there. It worsened with movement, especially sneezing and made it hard to do much of anything. The pain had been slowly building since Boxing Day and my self-diagnosis attributed it more to industrial quantities of brandy butter than a cardiac complaint.

Boxing Clever

It was my girlfriend’s frustration at my transformation into a wincing invalid that drove me to seek advice. I phoned NHS Direct and spoke to a man who sounded exactly like Frank Bruno. I wondered if taking thousands of blows to the head is good preparation for advising people on medical emergencies.

He led me through a series of alarming questions, ending with ‘are you bleeding profusely?’ Thankfully I was able to answer no but I couldn’t help imagining a person so polite that they would wait until directly asked to point out this fact.

Frank continued.

‘Have you taken any illicit drugs in the past few days?’

‘Paracetamol.’

‘Not that kind of drug.’

‘Ah, um, no. Oh wait – there was a dubious cookie I accidentally ate on Christmas Eve. But that did more mental harm than physical.’

Frank laughed. The deep, reassuring laugh that I fondly remember from his ringside chats with ‘Arry. I felt confident from his amusement that whatever I had was not life threatening. This was confirmed when he put me on hold. An instrumental track filled my ears, relentless and devoid of melody. I can only speculate that this rhythmic bombardment is designed to act as a kind of sonic life support machine for the most serious of cases. The driving beat encourages the patient’s heart to keep pumping. Were they to play One Direction or Miley Cyrus, for example, callers would no doubt lose all hope and stave their own heads in with the telephone.

Frank came back on the line. He offered no clue as to what I was suffering from but he was clear that lights and sirens were not necessary. I phoned my GP and was able to get an appointment that morning.

I drove most of the way in second gear as moving my left arm to reach the shifter aggravated the pain. Other drivers reacted badly to my slow speed and high revs by tailgating me and trying to pass. It was an unwelcome glimpse into old age.

Call a Priest or a Doctor?

I explained my symptoms to the doctor and he asked me to remove my shirt, which I did. Painfully. Prodding of the ribcage followed and I winced at certain points in his investigation of my chest.

‘Could you have strained your muscles lifting or carrying anything recently?’ the doctor asked.

‘No,’ I replied, sure that shovelling Christmas pudding and operating a remote control could not have caused tears in my muscle fibres.

‘Well, in that case I think you have Devil’s Grip.’

He said this as if it was a perfectly normal sentence, like ‘have a good day’. I was somewhat taken aback and wondered what was coming next. Perhaps he would recommend that my firstborn should be left on a hillside to be devoured by crows. Thankfully his eyes did not glow red and he continued quite calmly.

‘It’s a virus that causes inflammation of the intercostal muscles between the ribs. Get some Ibuprofen gel for the pain and it should clear up in a week or so. It’s rarely fatal.’

So the Dark Lord had singled me out for special treatment but was not going to kill me. The doctor wrote DEVIL’S GRIP in capital letters on a piece of paper and handed it to me. As if I was likely to forget a name like that. It would be like forgetting your head was on fire.

Later on the internet filled in the gaps left by the medic. Its proper name is Bornholm disease or epidemic pleurodynia…

‘…the distinguishing characteristic of this disease is attacks of severe pain in the lower chest, often on one side. The slightest movement of the rib cage causes a sharp increase of pain, which makes it very difficult to breathe. The attacks strike with a feeling like an iron grip around the rib cage.’

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I don’t make New Year’s resolutions as I consider every day an opportunity for self-improvement. One week I might be learning Arabic, the next I’ll be perfecting the art of juggling while riding a unicycle. Life is one big adventure. But if there is one thing I will do my best to avoid in 2014, it’s the Devil and his excruciating grasp.

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If you have enjoyed this post please take a few seconds to vote for me in the lastminute.com Spontaneity Champion competition. The prize is truly incredible and would propel me towards the international fame and fortune that I undoubtedly deserve. 

http://www.lovelivinglastminute.com/home/oliver-davy/

Lastminute.com Spontaneity Champion semi final

Despite all the hard work that went in to create my entry video for this competition, I have managed not to spontaneously combust. I am now down to the last ten and hoping to progress to the final stage and become the Lastminute.com Spontaneity Champion.

You can see my profile and watch my entry video here http://www.lovelivinglastminute.com/home/oliver-davy/

Check back on Friday 20 December when the public vote goes live to watch my latest video and help me push through to the final! 

Spontaneity Champion competition

I've entered a competition to become the Lastminute.com Spontaneity Champion. This is an amazing opportunity to lead a more exciting and spontaneous life alongside my job. You can amuse yourself by watching my entry video below.

Lastminute are looking for someone to indulge their love for living life at the last minute for a whole year. They'll fund the winner with up to £50k worth of travel and experiences, who in return will help inspire the nation to live more spontaneously, by sharing their adventures through social media. 

If I get through to the next round, which I'm sure you'll agree I should, there will be a task and a public vote. I'd like to raise awareness now to prepare for my inevitable progression. It goes without saying that I would chew my left arm off if it would give me a better chance of winning so please share far and wide and keep your fingers crossed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51ANYM4QHR4

Life in the Row Lane

This week it was revealed that only 4 commuters are using the £60m cable car across the River Thames. Information released under the Freedom of Information Act showed only four Oyster Cards used the route more than five times in one week in October. This is tragic news for an expensive prestige project but why would you want to travel over the river when you can travel on it?

The tide has dropped considerably by the time we've finished our pint and the kayak is bobbing at the far reach of outstretched legs dangled off the pier. The current catches us, and the Barmy Arms slips away behind as we paddle hard to reignite chilled bodies. We’re heading east, back the way we've come, through Richmond and past Kew Gardens, along the watery artery towards the heart of the city.

Times have changed since the Romans navigated the 7 metre tidal range of the longest river in England to found Londinium in the 1^st century AD. We now have the Thames Barrier, the world’s second largest moveable flood defence, to protect us from storm surges and you can check high and low tide times on Twitter.

Ollie on the barge

Ollie, an old friend, and I were hoping there would be no freak weather events when we spent a crisp November afternoon enjoying a duck’s eye view of London; we took a two-man kayak for a spin along Old Father Thames from the River Brent to Twickenham and back.

What a place to live

We set off from a mate’s converted Dutch Barge aptly named Serenity, which is moored in a peaceful basin near Gunnersbury. Richard welcomed us onboard his floating abode, a well-kept beauty built in 1905, and we drank freshly brewed coffee by the wood-burning stove while he explained the finer points of kayaking on the Thames.

‘Head west first, against the current, so it’ll be easier on the way back. And don’t fall in.’

Serenity at her mooring 

The autumn breeze blew fresh against our cheeks as we tipped the kayak off Serenity’s roof and it hit the water with a satisfying thwack. We were bundled up with layers but the trees turn exhibitionist in the cold, exposing branches and knotted trunks. Their discarded leaves lay on the water, so many shades of brown clustered like the rusty iron roofs of slum shacks seen from the air.

Cleaner than you think

We found our rhythm quickly and settled into a steady pace, occasionally pausing to admire a heron in a tree or a cormorant with wings outstretched to dry. The presence of these fish eating birds is a good indicator of the cleanliness of the Thames. Just as well; the river supplies two thirds of London’s drinking water.

Our only human companions on the river were rowers; it’s too cold now for pleasure cruising. In spring and summer the waterway will be teeming with boats and the scullers will have to check more frequently over their shoulders as they scythe powerfully along. We observed the rules of the river, staying to right hand side and well away from the speeding vessels.

The houseboats moored along the Thames are a curious collection indeed. We could not fathom how some had survived the recent winds; makeshift wooden living boxes tacked on to the most basic of metal barges. Others, more sinister, seemed to be the work of a maritime Dr Frankenstein; battered boats melded together with metal plating, stove pipes sticking improbably from their roofs. Still more; moulding, creaking, tarpaulins flapping, chaotic interiors exposed. As we slipped quietly beside these empty dwellings I had the eerie feeling we were trespassing on someone’s life. Perhaps a maniac recluse who could return at any moment, spot us and fly into a deadly rage.

Across the Thames from Twickenham. The Royal Star & Garter Home in the centre

At Twickenham, opposite Eel Pie Island where the Rolling Stones drove crowds wild in the 60s, there are two pubs to slake a paddlers thirst, both right on the river and easily accessible from floating transport. The Barmy Arms was cash only but we rustled up enough change for pints and while we drank at the water’s edge we had an encounter with a fellow named John.

He lurched drunkenly out from behind a bank of portaloos, exclaiming to no one in particular;

‘There’s enough for one each. And they’re unisex!’

Mad John, to use his full name, kept us entertained with his ramblings and bad jokes.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, pulling up his jumper to reveal an impressive gut. We shook our heads. ‘A naval display,’ came the slurred reply.

Mad John

Just down river is the White Swan, a charming pub built in the 17^th Century where you might enjoy the water lapping around your feet if you choose a spot on the veranda at high tide. Its cosy corners are covered in pictures from the annual White Swan Raft Race held to raise money for the RNLI. The race takes place in July, the height of summer, surely one of the best times to visit a pub with such an excellent location.

Warmed by red wine we began the return leg of our journey in the fading light. The river carried us along at quite a pace, giving the impression that our paddling was more effective than it really was. In just two hours we had been transformed from amateurs to pros. 

To be taken seriously, jacket and paddles must match

The late afternoon gloom adds an air of mystery to riverside London. It becomes hard to make out the detail of objects until you are close to them: trees and boats become merely looming shapes and birds you didn't know were there take to flight nearby, giving one a start. As the sky darkened I had the feeling that we were making our way into an unknown and perhaps dangerous place. It was that familiar feeling of excitement and trepidation that accompanies exploration and new discoveries.

Back onboard Serenity, we wriggled out of soaked clothes and warmed our hands with mugs of tea. Aching shoulder muscles and huge appetites were our souvenirs from an afternoon well spent. The Mayor’s Thames Festival, a ten-day celebration of London’s iconic river, takes place in September every year. I know where I'll be watching the fireworks in 2014: from a kayak, bobbing gently on the swell. 

Fancy your own trip on the tidal Thames? Find out more here:

http://canoelondon.com/places-to-canoe-in-london/kayaking-on-the-tidal-thames/

Escaping the hubbub in a V-Dub: Pembrokeshire

You don't have to try hard to enjoy Wales’ most westerly county. 

Welsh rugby fans are in high spirits this weekend after their side’s record defeat of Argentina at the Millennium Stadium. Away from the bright lights of the autumn internationals, a long weekend on the Pembrokeshire coast will give you something to cheer about too.

Taking the plunge

I stood on the edge and looked down at the water. The drop seemed much further from above. I looked up to an even higher ledge, where a young boy was about to jump.

‘I didn't drive all this way to be upstaged,’ I thought, ignoring the trembling in my knees. I took a step forwards and threw myself into space.Time seemed to slow as I fell, my face contorted into an involuntary gurn. I hit the water at speed and sank quicker than a stone. The rush was addictive and I swam around for another go.

The Blue Lagoon, near Abereiddy in Pembrokeshire, is entry number one in the Wild Swim book and its position in first place is well deserved. Formerly a slate quarry, the sea has now broken through the walls to create a sheltered pool, which despite its name owes its green hue to the mineral content in the rocks.

The Blue Lagoon, Abereiddy, showing the ruined quarry buildings in the centre

The quarry walls have been breached and the ocean flows in

As I waited for my second jump a man in a wetsuit (everyone was wearing wetsuits apart from my girlfriend and I – more foolhardy than hardcore) told me that the Red Bull cliff diving championship was to be held here in a few weeks.

‘Right here?’ I asked, as school aged children swarmed around me chattering excitedly.

‘No mate – up there.’ I followed the man’s finger to the top of the quarry wall. It was almost 100ft high and not vertical so it would take a superhuman leap to clear the rocks at the bottom and avoid certain doom.

‘They build a platform sticking right out over the water,’ the man continued. ‘I’d love to be here to see it.’

The prospect of scrumming down with the Red Bull cavalcade made me shudder so I contented myself with another death-defying leap of mine own before scrambling onto the beach to warm up.

Holy dozers

Two days earlier, on Friday evening, my girlfriend and I had set off from London in Gerty, my VW campervan. I didn't fancy tackling the whole 300 miles in one go and arriving in the wee hours, so I used the satellite imagery on Google Maps to locate a place just over the Severn Bridge where we might find a secluded lane for a bit of a kip. My girlfriend dozed as I drove down back roads in the pitch black, listening to a podcast about a voodoo curse. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end and there was not a cosy lay by in sight.

It’s hard to locate a good sleeping spot when you can only see as far as your headlights but soon the lane emerged into a small town and we parked in the driveway next to a church. Perhaps I was seeking sanctuary from the disquiet of the spooky story. I wondered if we would forfeit protection from evil spirits by peeing on the hallowed ground.

The next day we were away early before we could be told off and were soon breakfasting in Sainsbury’s in Swansea, whose cafe was suffering from a plague of wasps. Was it the voodoo or the vicar catching up with us?

With plenty of food onboard, we also needed gas for the stove so I didn't have to think of an excuse to detour via Go Outdoors, the Mecca of the camping equipment world. So hypnotised do customers become by the rows of head torches, portable showers and inflatable kayaks that there are members of staff on hand to guide the bumbling fools towards the exit, after relieving them of £27.99 for a floating key ring.

High, dry and no Wifi

Saved from any wallet-melting buffoonery by my level headed girlfriend we carried on towards Hillfort Tipis, which, like other sites I have found using coolcamping.co.uk, did not disappoint. Located on farmland in Pembrokeshire National Park near to the town of Fishguard, the site sits above the coast with views down to the headland and the Irish Ocean. We drove in and were directed to park in the middle of a field by the owner, John. There was not a motor home in sight and there were acres of space between the nearest guests and us. If you like your camping more bumpkin than Butlins then Hillfort is perfect.

The view to Strumble Head from Hillfort Tipis campsite

We got to know John a little during our stay - he delivered firewood every evening in his battered Vauxhall Corsa and he asked us, jokingly, if we could find him a wife in London. He went on to lament that people rarely come to settle in these rugged parts, despite the outstanding scenery. It is true that city dwellers like to experience nature in bite-sized chunks and few would forego their friends and jobs to move away permanently. 

We were soon on our way again, driving to St Davids, the UK’s smallest city, for a boat tour around Ramsey Island. As we stood on the slipway next to Fishguard lifeboat station waiting for our captain, a claxon sounded, warning us to stand clear as the lifeboat was about to be deployed.

‘Who are they going to rescue?’ Asked the little boy, looking up at his dad, his eyes wide with excitement.

‘The previous tour group,’ I chipped in, fixing the youngster with an evil glare.

When nature doesn't nurture

We sped around the island nature reserve on a twinned-engine RIB (rigid inflatable boat), pausing to admire basking Grey Seals, wheeling Guillemots and curious rock formations. The captain handled the powerful craft with skill, manoeuvring deftly across The Bitches, a treacherous reef, which has sunk many ships over the years and is now a popular spot for white water enthusiasts to pit themselves against the rushing currents.

AGrey Seal basks near Ramsey Island

Tragedy struck the Bitches in 1910 when 3 lifeboat men lost their lives after rescuing the crew of stranded ship, which had been delivering coal to Ramsey Island. There has been a lifeboat station at St Davids since 1869 and the volunteers manning it would battle the gales and high seas in little more than a wooden rowing boat, until 1912 when the first motor lifeboat was introduced. The bravery of the crews is well documented on the plaques that line the walls of the station and each of the 330 lives saved gets a mention. 

The sea was calm as we looked down on it from our pitch that evening. When we asked John if were allowed to build a fire, his response was typically relaxed. 

‘That wall over there’s two hundred years old. Grab some stones from it and make a fire pit.’

We carefully undid the work of long-dead hands and cooked our supper over charcoal before lying on our backs to watch the stars sparkle in the black sky. Our quiet enjoyment of the celestial display was disturbed intermittently by things slithering over our legs and hands – the damp grass was a paradise for slugs.

Unsung hero

Ellie and I had agreed to be prepared for bad weather; ‘It always rains in Wales,’ but we were lucky, which is why the next day found us swimming in the Blue Lagoon and lunching in the tiny harbour at Abercastle where the tidal reach is long, the sea sucked in through a gash in the cliffs and lapping at the crab traps parked on the beach. The village was the landing site of the first single-handed sailing of the Atlantic from west to east in 1876 by the Danish fisherman Alfred Johnson, who spent sixty six days covering over 4,000 miles from shore to shore. Why is Alfred’s remarkable achievement not more widely known? Perhaps because the story of his adventure is out of print and the one new copy remaining costs £405 on Amazon.

Taking a considerably smaller risk, we spent a couple of hours stretching our legs along the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, heading west as it followed the fractured outline of the cliffs perched above inaccessible beaches battered by waves.

The Pembrokeshire Coast Path near Abercastle

That evening there was little else to do but relax. We made gin and tonics and took them up to the highest point of the campsite to watch the sun set across the smooth ocean. As the light faded the beam of Strumble Head lighthouse swung around, warning ships away from the rocks.

Sunset over the Irish Ocean, and yes, those are VW vans on my mug

All too soon it was Monday morning and we bid farewell to John and Hillfort Tipis, driving west again to pay a visit to the car boot sale near St Davids. The reformed hoarders and cottage entrepreneurs lined up on either side of a rugby pitch like opposing armies with their wares spilling out of vehicles that wouldn't have looked out of place in an episode of Wacky Races.

Crab-racadabra 

Just in time for lunch we arrived at Solva and pulled over at a sign announcing ‘Fresh Crab Daily’. We followed the arrow on foot until another sign pointed through a gate into a back garden, where we were greeted by furious barking. We waited nervously, wondering if we were about to be attacked when a lady appeared and ushered us inside where piles of dressed crab were on display. Her husband catches the crabs on his days off; a canny way to diversify his livelihood during these economically challenging times.

Down by Solva harbour we sat in the sea breeze, scooping crabmeat out of the shell while watching families pile into wetsuits and onto the water in kayaks, canoes and sailing boats. A stroll by the water following the receding tide took us past a collection of limekilns. Built in the 18^th and 19^th centuries, these large ovens would have been used to heat limestone brought in by sea, creating lime to enrich the local soil.

Further down the coast we stopped at Newgale, where there is a 3-mile stretch of sandy beach. The flat expanse is a popular place to learn to surf and kids can splash around in the gentle swells. We reclined with ice creams and savoured the final doses of Vitamin D before the long drive back to London.

The camping season is sadly over, as temperatures dip below zero and most sites close for the winter. While Wales will be hoping that they can build on the victory against Argentina in order to try and retain the 6 Nations title in 2014, I'm looking forward to spring and another fine performance from the cliffs and coves of Pembrokeshire National Park. 

Grazy days on the Pembrokeshire coast

Pembrokeshire resources to make your stay:

Where to stay http://hillfort-tipis.co.uk/

What to do http://www.ramseyisland.co.uk/marine-tours-2/

Red Bull cliff diving at the Blue Lagoon http://www.redbullcliffdiving.com/en_DK/video/cliff-diving-wales-stop-motion-film