Enjoying a gentle river journey into Thurso

THIS is the time of year when the effort to get into the outdoors pays off more than ever. It is so easy to fall into a sort of half-asleep indoor stupor, forget the great wild world exists and not even realise that you’re only half alive. And you don’t have to go far, unlike those unfortunate enough to live in big cities.

What could be closer to home than the River Thurso, winding its way down some 14 miles from Westerdale to the sea, mostly placid water with just a few gentle rapids? It makes a nice trip on a short December day in a river kayak.

Almost perfect conditions were forecast, cold and bright with a rising southerly wind, with the river neither too low (less than 30cm – too many rocks to hit) or too high (90cm or more – the rapids too turbulent for my liking) but just right (60cm – fast enough to give a good flow). Thurso river trips have to be at this time of year when there is no fishing – one has a legal right to paddle on any day of the year but I don’t want to spoil somebody else’s sport.

It does take a bit of organisation, though. I leave home shortly after seven, the boat and bike on the roof of the car, the kayaking and cycling gear in the boot. Drive up to Westerdale, meeting the streams of Dounreay-bound headlights on the main road. The ground’s frosty with some old snow, in the half-light I let the boat and paddle slide down the steep bank by the bridge then carefully descend the icy wooden steps and leave all my kayaking gear with the boat. If I’ve forgotten anything – spray deck, buoyancy aid, food, even a shoe, the trip will be off.

Drive the 12 miles to Thurso, park the car and set off back to Westerdale on the bike. I still need lights as far as Halkirk, the sun’s just rising and huge piled clouds to the north and west are glowing pink. Fortunately, the showers don’t come to much – it would not be a good idea to get soaked before even setting off. It’s a nice, quiet ride, taking the route through Halkirk to avoid a probably icy Scotscalder road, good to stretch the legs which will be cramped for hours in the boat. Back at Westerdale I lock the bike and change into kayaking gear, getting hands and feet frozen in the process.

That’s the thing I find hardest about kayaking in winter, keeping my feet and hands warm. A good dry suit keeps the feet dry, but there is nothing but the thin shell of the boat separating them from freezing river water all day and they eventually get cold, even when encased in two pairs of warm socks. Hands slowly warm up, protected from the cold air by “pogies” wrapped round the paddle; I’ve tried wet-suit gloves but these just seem to restrict the blood flow while giving little insulation. Any advice from anyone?

AT last, nearly three hours after leaving home, the boat’s in the water below the main rapids and the current’s carrying me rapidly past Dale House. To the west Dorrery Hill is white, while ice lines the riverbanks. It’s turning into a lovely bright day with blue skies and distant towering shower clouds. Every so often I come across a heron standing at the edge of the water. Little flocks of ducks take off, I recognise the whistle of wigeons.

The river meanders below the plantations of Scotscalder, very gentle rapids interspersed with still reaches. The great thing about paddling down a river is you can sit back and have a rest and still be making slow progress, just letting the boat spin gently round while looking at the views.

Wonderful – no wind turbines anywhere, the Causewaymire monsters hidden behind me. But wait, a sinister anemometer mast about half a mile to the east… surely not another attack on our beleaguered county? A wind farm here, even a couple of big turbines, will ruin this stretch of river as well as those fine views from the Harpsdale road. O money, money, people will do anything for it, this is selling our birthright.

I’ve walked all these riverbanks many times and in winter they are very wet with awkward streams and ditches to cross, it’s much nicer to be coasting easily past on the water. I paddle towards the first Harpsdale footbridge, turning the boat to look behind and notice a seal following me, as they often do… wait a minute, a seal? No, an otter, it dives when it sees me looking at it.

The second bridge is in a bad way with many missing planks, having suffered in some recent flood. The railway bridge comes into sight and I pull into the bank for a break, for food and some hot tea from the flask, before tackling the Halkirk rapids.

The only real bit of excitement on the river is the stretch of a mile or so through Halkirk, with some rapids perhaps raising the grading of the river a notch above the easiest grade one. Quite enough for me, paddling extreme grades four or five has no appeal at all and this section is fun without being too difficult.

There’s a little weir, some islands to avoid, rocky slides and nice standing waves. A big tree at Gerston has, however, fallen into the river, making the usual route impassable or highly dangerous. The alternative on the other side is shallow and I have to shuffle the boat off stones and rocks.

It’s good to see that, at long last, the riverside path is being repaired after it was washed away by the October floods some four or five years ago. Under the road bridge, down the fast channel to the right, paddling hard to miss the cliff, into an eddy to take a break then down the last stretch of fast rapids below Braal, watching out again for any fallen trees. The river takes me quickly past Hoy Farm, the stone building glowing in the low sun, there’s a new fishing hut just past the pumping station which offers a chance for a break out of the wind.

MY feet are now pretty cold – to be warmed up by a dint of jogging on the spot inside the hut while eating a couple of squashed sandwiches and drinking more hot tea, meanwhile surrounded by posters about salmon and sea trout. Most sport fishing these days is catch and release.

A shooting magazine advertises, on the front cover, that to shoot a brace of woodcock with right and left barrels is a once-in-a-lifetime dream of wildfowlers. I have no problem with a goose for Christmas, a roe deer for the freezer, or red deer for venison and to keep the numbers down. But I simply don’t understand people who shoot wildlife simply for pleasure.

I love seeing wild woodcock, and for that matter grouse. What is the attraction of blasting them out of the air? Or the even more weird sport of shooting pheasants which have been reared in thousands on pheasant farms and released into the woods that morning? Why not shoot with a camera if you need some incentive to get you out into the country?

The next few miles of the river are mostly placid, just a few slightly faster stretches and the odd small weir. A peaceful meander, watching the low banks and grassy fields pass.

There had been one or two whooper swans, I gradually catch up with one till it flaps off, struggling to get above the water and flying a few hundred yards before landing again in the river. The process repeats all the way to Thurso, the bird never thinking of flying past me back upstream.

Slightly faster currents carry me easily under the rusty railway bridge and on past Geise with its lovely little network of paths made by the owners of the farm. Ahead, on the skyline, is the Dunbar Hospital and the Ormlie houses. The river takes me in a big bend past the ruins of Bleachfield and between higher banks towards the cemetery.

The swan, ahead, simply bobs down the weir at the salmon pool. I’m not risking it and land to drag the boat past this obstacle before relaunching to finish my river journey passing under the new footbridge, then down the Mall watched by the ubiquitous dog walkers.

Under the second footbridge, under the road bridge, down the gentle rapids past the Legion and under the service bridge, I can see a big surf out on the sea but I’ve had enough for the day and land the boat near the car. The journey’s taken, with stops, less than five hours.

It’s December 12, the earliest sunset of the year, the sun has gone, the wind is bitter and the ground is freezing. I reckon I’ve earned a treat before driving back to Westerdale to pick up the bike, a hot coffee and a tray bake in the warmth of the Tempest Café at the harbour.

Out at sea, at least a dozen wet-suit clad folk are still surfing the famous Thurso breaks. Good to see others making the most of our fantastic local environment.

Why not join them?