I’ve learnt two things since the last time I did this kayak route:
- Water is wet
- The sun is hot
So before setting out on today’s adventure, I bought two things:
- A waterproof bag
- Factor 50 sun-cream
That previous time, two weeks ago, I’d ended up with my lunch completely soaked and my legs completely burnt. I could barely walk for three days after, the pain excruciating, especially when I got up in the morning and my brittle skin cracked from the first movement of the day.
The purpose of me doing these kayak routes is to build up my experience and make my rookie mistakes in the relative safety of the string of reservoirs that ring the north-west of Madrid. One day I hope to do a more epic kayak adventure, eventually something like the Mississippi or Danube. Or both – watch this space.
I’m a long way from those heady ambitions though, but the wiggly Pedrezuela reservoir next to Guadalix de la Sierra is a decent start. The Club Náutico rents kayaks at very reasonable rates, and Los Alcores is a beautiful spot to aim at the far end of the route.
I get to the Club just before 11am, the sun is strong already and I’m looking forward to my day on the water. My lunch is safely packed into my new waterproof bag, the top folded over three times and clipped, and my mobile is inside its waterproof case, hanging around my neck, and so I’m ready to go.
The top of the reservoir is a broad windy lake – the North Lake as I call it – mainly used for windsurfing and sailing dinghies, and although it offers little in the way of pleasure, it has to be crossed before you can get into the nicer river system. Depending on the day, this can be quite a chore as the wind can relentlessly push and prod the kayak in the wrong direction, meaning you have to dig deep with your strokes, stroke after stroke after stroke, to make any headway at all. Today it’s fairly easy, it’s flat and there’s barely a breeze, so I make it to the other side quite quickly.
It’s 1 km to get into the Upper River, a section that, still being open to the windy lake, tends to be quite choppy and awkward to navigate.
Here’s a map so you know what I’m talking about:
I head into the sheltered section of Middle River, a lovely kilometre-long stretch that meanders between the hills. It’s fairly wide still, so I hug the western shore and dodge the submerged trees to make it feel more like a proper river – of course it isn’t, there’s no flow or current, no direction of travel, it’s just a flat reservoir with wind.
This being a flooded valley, it can be a bit precarious with rocks and trees beneath the surface, so you have to be careful. This also means there aren’t really many natural beaches or jumping off points if you want to swim. You’re not supposed to swim, but people do, and this Middle River section is the busiest bit for that, and there are quite a few paddle surfers and kayakers dotted around.
I paddle on, and into the Lower River, again more exposed to the westerly winds. That gets worse as I get into The Reach – I don’t know why I call it that, it sounds like it’s from Game of Thrones, it just seemed like a good name.
I’ve never been in the little river off to the south, and so decide to head down it and look for somewhere to stop to rest. As it narrows it gets lovelier, and again I feel like a proper explorer doing proper explorer things, like exploring. There’s no-one around this bit, it’s beautifully quiet, the only sounds being cowbells somewhere in the hills to my left. There’s what looks like an island, but as I get closer I see it’s more of a peninsula with a narrow isthmus connecting it to the shore. I think about stopping there and exploring, but I don’t, although couldn’t tell you why – probably just inertia, easier to keep going than make the effort to stop. After another few minutes I find a decent landing spot on the right and this time make the mammoth effort to beach the kayak and prop myself under the shade of a nearby tree to apply sun-cream to my legs, glug some water and enjoy the moment.
I ignore my phone (apart from taking the photos above), and just try to relax in the tranquillity of the moment. It’s not easy, my mind is used to racing, and to distractions and phones and Instagram videos. I forget I’m supposed to be ignoring my phone and do some Spelling Bee on the NY Times app, but then I remember and put it away – I’ll get to Genius level later, I reason with myself, perhaps even Queen Bee status, but that’s unlikely. I’ve only ever got Queen Bee twice. I then check my chess games on the Chess.com app, before noticing I’m doing it, then angrily put the stupid thing away again … why do I so thoughtlessly reach for my phone all the time?
The cowbells are getting closer and soon I see a herd of cows over the other side of the river – hence me naming this the River Moo – and in another moment they’re down by the water and on to the peninsula I’d thought was an island. I’m now glad I didn’t set up my camp there.
It’s probably also good I didn’t bring Daisy, she’d be barking like crazy at them – she barked menacingly at a buoy when I took her kayaking at Lozoya – and then who knows what alpha cow might decide to attack.
I decide to stir myself and meander further down the River Moo until it gets too shallow, then do a u-turn and paddle back up, past the cows (they ignore me) and back on to The Reach.
The Reach is quite hard work after the narrow and gentle River Moo, it’s wide and choppy, and the breeze never seems to stop. I hug the southern coast, watching the fish jump out the water. People fish these waters, but they don’t look very edible to my non-expert eye. Perhaps they throw them back.
I eventually get into the East Lake which is even more open to the elements. The southern portion abuts the dam wall, and I never go that way. I don’t know how these things work, but if there is any current in this otherwise flat lake, it’s going to be near the exit, which is going to be at the dam, and I don’t want to get caught in that!
I cross the East Lake, going north-east, skim the corner and then cut back left to enter the North River. This is a long way, and with the wind – not strong, but incessant – pushing the water the other way, it feels like I’m never going to make the other shore. Progress in imperceptible as I plough on, stroke and stroke, only visible when looking back and seeing how far I’ve gone. I pick out trees on the edge and aim for them, and use other trees as references, just so I can feel I’m headed in the right direction, and eventually I get into the shelter of the river. The first bit is like the edges of a rectangle and I go up one side and beach the kayak on the corner, time for another application of sun-cream.
I set off again, and am really looking forward to the next bit. Before I did this blog and felt the need to be more sensible, I named this section The Long Nanny after the tiny river in Northumberland that used to flow into the sea in a channel it had cut down the middle of Beadnell Beach. As kids we’d play in it – no more than knee-high to us, even then – because its water was much warmer than the North Sea it was about to join. In those days we could spend hours on the beach, just digging and building and kicking at the tiny river’s banks, trying to make it as wide as the Amazon. I guess you know you’re getting old when you think about a northern English beach and automatically reach for your jumper rather than your bucket and spade. Last time I went, I tried to find it but it had disappeared, at least as a channel, instead entering the sea by spreading out and trickling across the sand, barely noticeable to us as we paddled down the beach to Low Newton.
I checked on the map later, to see if I’d remembered wrong, but the river was there, albeit actually called Brunton Burn, the Long Nanny being a tributary stream, just the other side of the dunes.
Oh well, memories from childhood are often muddied with things that turn out to be not quite true.
The North River is mostly empty, few people venture this far. A couple in proper speedy kayaks zip by and I envy their effortless pace, my rented sit-on-top number is like trying to pilot an inner tube. The river swings around and gets narrower and shallower, and soon there are lily pads and other aquatic plants floating on the surface. It is stunningly beautiful at this point and I catch myself smiling broadly as I edge along. There’s a couple fishing to one side, so I head to the opposite bank so as not to disturb them. The way into the last section of navigable river, and to the Los Alcores rock formations, is almost hidden. There is a route through the lilies, but it’s not obvious, and I love how I now have to carefully pick my way through these calm and shallow waters rather than blindly dig through the windy open lake sections.
I paddle on, blissfully happy in this peaceful little section, the high rock walls of Los Alcores on one side, shady forested hills on the other. I paddle through the shade, enjoying the plunge in temperature, then back into the sun and across to the towering rocks on the other side … this is only about 8 kilometres paddle from where I started at the Club, and much nearer over the hill on foot, but it feels like another world.
I find a little beach and get out to stretch my legs and have my lunch, swatting away the flies and enjoying the view.
There isn’t much else to do, the lakeside path I am perched on is closed off with barbed wire one way, and disappears into the woods the other. I walk it a little way, and spot this enormous spiderweb glinting in the sun, but don’t go far.
I am desperate to get back on the water, but am also trying to slow down and relax, to just be without worrying about being productive. It is a baking hot Sunday in August, I have nothing to do and nowhere to be, I don’t need to rush back.
I take about an hour over lunch, then lather up with sun-cream, drain the last of my water and set off at a leisurely pace back in the general direction of the Club. I am still grinning with the sheer pleasure of being on the water as I exit the lily section, past the fishing couple and back round to where I’d taken a break earlier on the corner of the North River’s boxy meander.
I hug the other shore as I go down the East Lake, pausing from time to time to enjoy the sensation of bobbing up and down on a boat. I get into the rhythm of strokes, trying to build good habits of using my shoulders and turning my whole body with each pull of the oar. The repetition and regular splash of the stroke is therapeutic, and my mind clears and I feel a sense of happiness – and I’m not the sort of person who feels the satisfaction of inner joy that often. I am not a smiley person, my face looks like I was born to play poker at a funeral, but appearances can be deceptive and I’m actually fairly happy on the inside, I’d say I’m consistently around a seven … but today, on the water in the midst of nature, tired from exercise, and with a clear mind, the deep inner happiness feels wonderful.
Eventually, thirsty and tired, I get to The Reach where I hang a right. Now there are a few more people again, an old guy in his own kayak on the north shore, a couple of men on a long paddle board with two dogs, one of them barking a few warning shots at me. The owners smile and wave, and I wave back, but keep away so as not to get savaged by their toy poodle.
As I turn into the Lower River, aiming for the white rocks in the distance, someone else is swimming from their kayak, and a group of teenagers are on the shore, splashing each other, and jumping in to swim. I keep going, ignoring them. Sometimes I say I don’t feel much different than when I was young, the time we experience chugs along so slowly, we can’t perceive age creeping up on us. Looking back, the time we remember goes so fast, and it seems like moments ago when I was that age, so full of the energy and excitement of youth … but when I see them, flirting and shrieking as they jump around and splash each other, I realize how different I am now. They’re like the trees I’d used as reference on the East Lake earlier, stationary objects to compare against, and I see clearly that I’m not 18 anymore, and I’m far happier in my own peaceful little world on the opposite shore in the shade. I stop under a large overhanging tree and enjoy the coolness, wishing I had more water to drink. I’m tired and feeling dehydrated, and know I should have brought a bigger water bottle. I don’t want to ever stop being on this kayak, but I also don’t have much energy left, so I rest, preparing myself for the hardest bit: crossing the North Lake back to the Club.
I dawdle, not wanting it to end, but as I get out into the Upper River and on into the North Lake, it’s fine, this bit isn’t much fun, and I am happy when I eventually get back to base and drag my kayak up the ramp on to dry land.
Parched and weary, I try to find water but the bar is closed, so I drink some warm water from a hose, and learnt a new lesson:
- Buy a bigger water bottle
MrJohn 