Hay-on-Wye to Hereford by Canoe

This was intended to be one of those all inclusive non-threatening type trips. Nobody was supposed to get wet or tired or eaten by crocodiles during the course of our two day excursion.

The plan was to take some tents, a change of clothes and our swimming things and to canoe down the fast flowing river Wye from Hay-on-Wye to Hereford, stopping along the way to camp and sample the local delights (largely beer). Sadly (and we have done this trip twice) we were slightly undone by circumstance.


This is a tale of foot and mouth, wet underwear, a certain amount of hard work and a single mump.

I hatched this plan because I had never been on the Wye or spent much time canoeing. Also, thirty-odd miles over two days looked like a nice achievable target. There was the prospect of a fair bit of help from the current and some fantastic views of the Black Mountains.

I managed to convince Chris, Nick, Judy, Becky and Emma that this would be a good idea and pressed on with the organisation. I booked a campsite near Hay and three 'Old Town' canadian canoes from the nice people at Celtic Canoes. They agreed to rent us the canoes, paddles, life jackets and kit barrels, and to pick us up from our 'final destination' (I suspect they didn't have much confidence that we'd make Hereford). Judy agreed to drive so we were all organised for an early Saturday start.

Our first problem became apparent when Chris and Emma arrived as arranged on Friday evening. He isn't always in peak condition (I think it is over-training) but his grey pallor, rasping tone and lumpy neck did not augur well for a weekend of manly (personly) activity. A brief examination had him consigned to the sanatorium at Nelmes Towers with a confirmed case of mump (a second mump was never really identified) and we six were now five.

Saturday dawned bright and promising and we were off - shooting down the A40 as close to light speed as a Peugeot 205 will allow. Past the upper class gals school at Cheltenham we went and off into the dangerous bandit country of the English/Welsh border region. The Sons of Glyndwr were no doubt monitoring our progress for signs of imperial expansionist ambition but, being a stouthearted bunch, we reached Hay in fine style.

The hairy chappie from Celtic Canoes was there to meet us and we were soon equipped with a full set of bits and pieces. Our gear was stowed in some nice little green barrels that betrayed a former life as spicy Indian food holders and I could always be sure of getting to a Tunnocks bar or my camera by opening the one marked 'Lime Pickle'. All that remained was to reassure Judy and Emma (now in a boat together due to the lack of Mr Major) that it was almost impossible to fall out of a flat-bottomed Old Town canoe.

Our first task after pushing off down the river under the shadow of the bridge was to negotiate a small narrow 'rapid' between some rocks and to paddle off into a wider bit of river beyond. Becky and I did this and Harris followed. We swung the boats around and waited for Judy and Emma. They slewed round the head of the little rapid and stopped. 'Bugger', I thought, and started to paddle back to offer advice. Emma stood up to push the boat off the rock on which it was stuck and the boat began to slide slowly sideways down the little water chute. One minute it was upright, the next it, its luggage and its crew were bobbing down the river upside down on diverging courses.

When we fished the barrels and our damp colleagues from the water they, and their gear, were thoroughly soaked (I suspect that someone hadn't screwed the top on the Garum Massala properly). I felt like a swine for underestimating people's ability to get unnecessarily wet in such circumstances and Nick and Becky had to share out their copious stores of dry knickers and sweatshirts (I never did find out why Harris had brought dry knickers). There followed an early lunch, an unscheduled visit to a supermarket and a lot of messing around.

Eventually underway again we found that another of my assumptions was a little flawed. There was very little water in the river and the flow was almost non-existent. We had to paddle if we expected to get anywhere and paddle we did. Despite this, Judy and Emma's boat got stuck on a particularly shallow bit of river bed and, being once bitten, they refused to get out of the boat until I had cut my way through chest high undergrowth and risked the raging torrent to push them off the shoal (am I exaggerating here?).

Finally we reached the lovely little village of Bredwardine and camped under the shadow of the old bridge. The evening was warm and the rurality was quite palpable. There really was a whole heap of nothing for miles around and it was quite magical. We found a pub a tired stagger up the road and had a good hearty dinner and a few pints of beer. As the tales of the fishermen started to meld into one and the barman called last orders we made our way back to the tents. I fell into a deep slumber and awoke with the sun through the canvas and the sound of farm animals close by.

The break-down of tents and the packing of gear was not the most efficient I have ever seen (actually it was a sort of limp chaos) but we eventually left, sliding away into the bright clear morning with a yellow sun glinting off the water. We passed Monnington-on-Wye and Preston-on-Wye and stopped for lunch near the bridge at Sollers. Some crabby unreasonable old landlord had erected a sign telling us that we were not allowed to be there but hell - you have to stop somewhere. The countryside was beautiful and some of the red slab-like rock formations in the deep clear water were very impressive. We saw buzzards and snipes, swans and some large brown trout. And some golf balls. We even stopped for a swim on a bend in the river.


After a while it became clear that there really was nowhere to buy anything to eat. In fact there was very little civilization at all. Indeed, Judy's abiding memory of the whole trip seems to be the near starvation she experienced during the last 10 miles or so of the route.


Finally we neared Hereford and hauled it gradually towards us with tired limbs. The final mile or so seemed to last an age but at last we were landing the boats by the bridge under the shadow of the cathedral and hauling them up to the park above. We took it in turns to look around the medieval town before hauling the boats onto the trailer and heading back in Mr Celtic's old Sherpa. It was a flash back to every school trip I have ever been on and I loved it.

This first trip was great success and I was impelled to do it again. Sadly the second trip was during the whole foot and mouth crisis and having both feet and mouths we were unable to stop for over twenty miles. Emma cried sitting on a barrel and we haven't done much canoeing since (because people have stopped answering my calls) but I enjoyed it anyway.

I have a few top-tips for anyone intending to do this trip.

· Celtic Canoes provide a good, friendly, reliable service
· Check that you have secured your barrels properly and put your gear in bags
· Take food and a stove as there nowhere after Hay-on-Wye to buy things
· Arrange camping ahead if you can as sites are rare