It was a Sunday in March, when a strange convoy of cars made its way South from Addlestone into Dorset. A red van plus a camper van with a trailer first, and then an old Sherpa, a Bedford and a little red car – quite obviously a delegation of the Club headed for a once-a-year spectacle: The opportunity to paddle a river named Rother on its final 14 miles from Midhurst to the River Arun.

The worst trouble with running rivers is usually the logistics. Everybody parking at the top and launching boats is all very well – but what to do when you have made it to the egress point, so many miles away? Not a lot of use… Invariably, two cars have to be sent ahead for one to be parked at the destination and act as a shuttle, and the other to collect the driver and his equipment back to the starting point. In this case, Jezz and Gary had taken on this responsibility and left the motorway slightly earlier to cut across country to the exit point near the rivers’ confluence, while the other cars stayed on to go straight to Midhurst. Sean as leader of the trip had spoken to the organiser to get the proper route instructions. However, once we had found the town and the river, there was no sight of the tour people who were supposed to show us the access point, give us last instructions and – most importantly (for them) - get the tour fee money off us.

We stopped in a car park to evaluate the situation. Across the river, the old Abbey loomed under an unwelcoming grey sky, while next to it, the pennants of a kennel show marquee happily waved in winds. No sign of the BCU-organised Rother Tour! No sign…? But wasn‘t that canoes being carried down the slope on the other side of the river, just below the abbey? Surely nothing else of the size could have such bright colours! So off we went, back into our cars and through the town, following the ABBEY signs. There were no cars to be seen on this side of the Rother but the colourful spots did proof to be canoeists indeed. And yes, they were part of the tour, in fact part of the organiser’s group who would bring up the rear of the paddlers, who had been sent off in little groups as they had arrived. (Needless to say, that the ACC was “just a little” late, as usual…).

Soon, an elderly couple found us and administered more instructions on the river (stay together, mind the weirs and there is a portage about half-way down where the river goes underneath the road). They also handed us a form to put down names and addresses of our group’s members, not to forget the request for our two quit each… The cars had to go back into the car park where we had stopped first, but there was a footbridge not far down the river to come back quickly. At least, we didn't have to carry the boats all the way...

The access point was a sandy slope reaching almost to the middle of the river which was not much wider than our duo was long. It was shallow, too, even the rain that had started would not make a change to that, but the bushes and trees that grew halfway into the flow promised an intriguing journey and we began our paddle in a brilliant jokey mood. The Rother past Midhurst is a windy affair with funny little drops and waves to play in, so in typical ACC manner we kept stopping and fooling around instead of trying to catch up the „rear-guard“ as we had promised to. How many boats can we get onto this wave across the river and will the duo fit around the next bent sideways? A ball we found drifting didn‘t help our progress either…

Eventually, the weather decided to favour us and Sonia caused another delay insisting that she was way to warm and urgently needed to take off her fleecy selopad, so we found her a steep bank that provided enough screen from unwanted eyes (slight drawback: very sandy…). And there she stood, shedding layers to the cheers of Kevin and Co. coming around the corner…

Unfortunately, the Rother didn‘t keep what it promised at the start-up point. The picturesque little stream soon opened up and became flat and boring and one after the other, we decided we were not made for placid water touring (or at least not in short playboats…). With every gust making a noise in the trees we were excitedly hoping for the first weir to show up. Instead, we came to a “fork” in the river and chose what seemed the shorter route on the map. And at long last, some old stone barriers in the water announced the arrival of a drop coming up. It turned out to be a giant fish ladder – and the main fun spot on the tour. Each step had quite a bit of a stopper but we all came down safely and a lot of us including Sean and myself in the duo got out, carried the boats back up and did it again! Quite an experience: On every step, the front of the duo sank right into the water while the back popped high, prompting both Sean and me into some funny faces (of quite a different nature each…).

After a little lunch break we set out further down the river, starting to wonder whether we had picked the proper direction at the river fork. There was no sign of other paddlers, any more weirs or the river vanishing underneath a road - just miles and miles of flat water in a forlorn country setting. The single farmhouse with horses in the field was welcomed as a sign of civilisation, fuelling the hope that soon… But no, all that came up was another fork in the river, and since there was an interesting set of iron slab weirs on the right and a pub in the distance we chose that direction.

It was quite obviously not part of the tour because soon the river contracted to a rather small passage with overhanging trees and strainers that hadn’t been cleared away in an attempt to make it canoeable. We did squeeze through, for a change happy with our tough short plastic boats. Unfortunately, we never found the pub which was apparently situated in the middle of an island, because soon afterwards our little bypass joined in with the main river again and became once more wide and boring. We tried jokes and all sorts to cheer each other up, conjuring pictures of wild white water journeys and plays in massive Thames Weirs but the mood invariably dropped at the same rate as our energy levels. No Mars bar would help.

The weather turned again and dark clouds blew heavy winds against us that would really hit when turning a corner in the wrong direction. Our group stretched out further and further, with the leaders trying to figure out just how far down the river we had come. Quite obviously we had missed the portage which was supposed to be half-way, but how many miles to go? Stories travelling around of big blisters on hands and little Danny crying didn’t make it easier. Finally, we reached the Mill, the last weir and notable play spot on the river but nobody seemed to feel like it. The road was close to the river here, a possible exit point and we discussed the matter of leaving the weaker tired ones here and sending some strong guys ahead to collect the shuttle car. It meant an hour or more of sitting in the cold winds with not a lot of shelter…

On the other end, there were two or three more miles of flat water in the wind to consider. Pride popped up hot and strong and no, we would not have it. The ACC would arrive in a group as they had left. Even Danny found his spirit again and went off strong, even beating the double power of our duo, just for the fun of it. We shoved last sandwiches and Mars bars down our throats when we approached the sewage station that signalled the near end of the tour. The final weir, this time a slope with a little tow-back on the bottom, was quickly shot and we played in the tiny stopper until the rising water turned it into a wave. Vivid reminder of the fact that this lower part of the river as well as the Arun, on which we would have to paddle the last bit to the egress point, was tidal. And the tide was now against us!

Determined we ploughed our way through the flow and just around another corner found the actual confluence from where we could already see Jezz’s red van in the car park. A hard last bit, scattering a few swans, and we fell onto the bank at our destination – with stiff legs and sore arms, unwilling to get up and carry the boats up the slope and over the fence. It had to be done… The expectation of sitting warm over a nice pint of beer in the pub just down the road while waiting for the other cars to come kept us going.

The pub was closed, though – it was standing in the wind for the wait. Thanks God somebody had had the great idea to leave a change of clothes in Jezz’s van, so at least we could get into something dry before it started raining. We were very grateful indeed for the hot teas and coffees Gary magically conjured from his camper van when they arrived half an hour later…

Certainly, a trip of a very different kind and one we will remember. Maybe we’ll try it in proper touring boats next time…

by Petra Hudson, May 1999