The story of our calamitous kayak trip down the river Severn, 2013

The story of a delightfully spontaneous but calamitous and downright dangerous trip down Britain's longest river.

In May 2013, I went and collected two questionable kayaks that I had purchased from Ebay, for the measly sum of £25. The woman wanted them gone from under the snail covered, blue tarpaulin in her garden, and I don't blame her. They were covered in goose shit, and had more patches on them than an old quilt. As you can see in image 2, they didn't really fit in the van, and with no bungee ropes or anything to hold them in, my best mate Dickson had to sort of hold on to them whilst sliding about in the van as we drove the 2 miles back to house to hose the shit off them. It was highly illegal.

A month later, it was time to put the kayaks to the test. Me and a good friend from Wales, whom I met through Welsh Greg many moons ago, decided to embark on an impromptu 2 day kayak down the river Severn, from Shrewsbury to Bewdley, about 40 miles south.

So, 3 days later, George drove up to the West Midlands and we strapped the kayaks onto the roof of my van, in double secure fashion. At least that's what we thought. In the 3rd image you can judge for yourself how well you think we strapped it, but either way, this was the result: On the A5 Shrewsbury bypass, a busy Dual Carriageway on which cars frequently reach over 70mph, I noticed a signal from George who was following me in his VW Golf. He was flashing his lights furiously. I pulled over slowly on the hard shoulder only to discover that the kayaks were pretty much completely loose. I'm not quite sure how they didn't fall off the top of the van, but somehow they didn't. It was highly illegal.

Logistically, the trip was awkward, and our way around it, clumsy and time consuming. We had to drive into Shrewsbury, unload the kayaks at the river Severn and leave them on the grass in a busy riverside park. We then had to drive all the way to Bewdley, park my van outside some houses, then drive all the way back to Shrewsbury, park George's car in another residential housing estate about half a mile from the kayaks, and walk over to them, if someone hadn't nicked them. In the 4th image you can see what George described as "The most ridiculously looking thing ever to walk through Shrewsbury" just as we left George's car.

To our amazement the kayaks were still there, although looking back I'm not surprised no one nicked them, and we set off along the Severn. The good news was that they both floated, but it quickly became apparent that my kayak, which I thought would be better and quicker than George's, was in fact way worse. It was incredibly poor at going in a straight line due to the lack of a streamlined ridge underneath, and I spent the first hour constantly spinning around in circles. Eventually though I learned to keep it relatively straight by constantly regulating my strokes.

Day one was incredible. Once out of Shrewsbury we entered the peaceful, tranquil world of the river. It was like no other feeling I've ever had. With no boats that far up the river, we had it to ourselves. Around each bend, a new place, full of wildlife, stillness and the faint sploshing of water from our paddles. We didn't pass through a single town or village that day, and ended up camping in some woods about 20 miles south. In image 5 you can see the spot where we decided to pull over and make camp. The only problem was, we had no food. I have no idea why, but needless to say it wasn't long before we found ourselves starving. We tried hunting some of the rabbits that were leaping in and out of the bushes, but soon gave up and decided to bite the bullet and walk 3 miles south into the historic town of Ironbridge, the site of the first iron bridge ever built (1779) where we were just about let into a fancy curry house in our ridiculous attire. One of the most satisfying curries I've ever had.

The next morning, after stinking the tent out, we took to the river again, through the eroding banks of the meanders north of iron bridge, (see image 6) and into the town itself (see image 7 for the bridge!) ..however, no longer than 2 minutes after marvelling at Abraham Darby III's mind blowing feat of engineering, we were drifting unsuspectingly into trouble. Just downstream of the bridge, are some rapids. Rapids neither of us had any idea existed, and whilst they're no Niagara falls, they weren't really the kind of thing you would tackle without life jackets (which we had taken off by this point) helmets and spray decks. We found this out as we approached the section. A group of 14, 15 year old school kids were lined up on the side of the river to the left, fully kitted out, with an instructor at the helm shouting out instructions to them. It was only when we were level with the instructor that we noticed that the river seemed to disappear ahead of us. It was a rapids, the size of which we had no clue. "can we go down there??" I hurriedly asked the man, George drifting towards the rapids ahead of me, "without a helmet and a life jacket? I wouldn't If I were you" he replied.. "If you hit your head on the rocks you're-" "TOO LATE" yelped George, who was now drifting into the increasingly fast flowing bottle neck. "HEAD FOR THE MIDDLE OF THE V, AND PADDLE AS FAST AND HARD AS YOU CAN!!" yelled the instructor, and with that, George disappeared in a furious blaze of white water. It was my turn. I won't lie, I was shitting myself. I had no idea how bad the rapids were, and I had a lot longer time for the man's words to resonate in my head. But I felt like I had to go for it, so I did. I followed his advice and paddled as hard and fast as I could into the middle of the V, where the main body of water is. Down I went, and BANG, straight into one huge, permanently stationary wall of water, sending shockwaves through my body and gallons of water into my boat. Then another even bigger wave slowed me down to a halt. BANG. This one filling the boat with water. I don't remember much else, before I was free of the turbulent waves. I joined George at the bottom on the right hand side, boat literally sinking, all our stuff wet, but completely exhilarated and in fits of laughter. We spent 20 minutes emptying our boats and reflecting, before moving on. In image 8 you can see the rapids, being used by people with the correct equipment.

The stretch to Bewdley was awesome. In images 9 and 10 you can see some of my kayaks 180 action near some beautiful red cliffs, and in image 11 George and I stopping for a pint in one of the many pubs in the gorgeous town of Bridgenorth. Finally, later that day at about 7pm, we pulled up at Bewdley, but there was one more twist..

Just as we pulled up in Bewdley, we joked about the idea that we'd somehow left the van keys in George's car back in Shrewsbury. But this joke flipped a switch deep inside of me, one that made me panic slightly, and check my bags upon disembarking. "George, you're going to hate me" I said. "What.." he probed. "I've left the van keys in your car" I said. "fuck off.. you're joking" he replied with a scared grin. But I wasn't joking. It was really happening. "I literally want to punch you in the face right now" he told me with real conviction and honesty. "I'm so sorry" I said. And with that, we set about wondering what to do next. We tried hitchhiking. Images 1, 12 and 13 show a hopeless me trying to lure cars over, but not only was the route to far away Shrewsbury fairly complicated, making it unlikely that cars would be going straight there, but I also looked like I'd pissed my pants, which probably didn't help either.

In the end, we gave up on hitchhiking. But how else could we get to Shrewsbury? well, there was one other way, but it was more bad news for George. There was a bus to Kidderminster, followed by a train to Wolverhampton, followed by another train to Shrewsbury, the last one of the day, and a late one too. George, who would have to go alone was the only one who could drive his car, would get into Shrewsbury at gone midnight, before having to locate the car and drive back to myself, who would be watching over the kayaks and the bags.  "I hate you" he said as he clambered aboard the the bus at 9pm. He returned at 2:30am to me, shivering my bollocks off in my still wet shorts next to the river Severn. It was awful at the time, but I wouldn't change it for the world. George, I'm not so sure.