Back on the Road

Although technically I'm supposed to be in Wales, I've been on a brief detour to Orkney, followed by ten days on the North coast of the Scottish mainland, picking up a few waves I missed first time round.

Orkney is great - beautiful beaches, impressive cliffs, neolithic ruins and viking villages. Plus delicious seafood if you can catch a fisherman as he unloads his boat. Conditions for surfing were summer-small, but I managed a couple of sessions at the legendary, seal-infested point break at Scara Brae, and another on the island of Sanday.

Although it was only chest high, the first day at Scara Brae was fairly good. Conditions dropped off overnight, and I didn't have quite as much success on the second day,
possibly because I was trying to surf the wrong type of board.
This is Orkney's star attraction.
She's standing in front of Orkney's second star attraction. And a load of old stones.

Here she is again with the Old Man of Hoy.
And even more stones.

No stones here. It's Sanday.
On Hoy we managed to catch local fishermen Kenny and Gary as they landed a crate of crabs.
A few hours later, voilà!
Apparently it's very important to dress appropriately for visiting neolithic stone circles and viking villages.
The locals even have a name for people like us:

End of the Campaigning Season

Summer's here, and with it crowds and flat seas, so I'm temporarily off the road and out of the water.

Since I started in Tiree in September, I've surfed a grand total of 60 waves in Scotland and England, mostly in geographical order. (That's 60 different beaches/breaks, not 60 actual waves - I think I caught 60 waves just in Sennen.)

Wales is next, probably in September. And I'm hoping to catch a handful of well-known breaks I missed first time round because of time, ignorance or lack of waves (Sandwood Bay, Lynmouth, Croyde, Sthhhhh - the least secret secret spot in Yorkshire - among others)

Before that, I'm heading to Orkney in August, and hoping to find the odd wave there.

I'm planning to write up the trip, so if anyone knows any agents or publishers with a passing interest in surfing, I would be very grateful.

In the meantime, thanks for reading, thanks for your comments and thanks for all your support.



Eighty Waves

Chapel Porth

One of the nicest beaches in North Cornwall is Chapel Porth, in the so-called Badlands near St Agnes. I caught it one wind-blown morning a few weeks ago, when it was heaving and heavy, with fat waves and too much froth. So I returned last week to try it in better conditions. This time there was a light off-shore blowing the tops off the fun, waist-high waves that were pouring into the narrow cove. Suddenly enthused and energised, I had a fabulous session, catching loads of waves in quick succession.
Afterwards, I was talking to another surfer in a van, John from West Sussex. He had been up on the hillside taking photos, and happened to catch these photos of me. Actually surfing.
Though I was rather dismayed to find photographic confirmation that I spend far too long on all-fours before I get to my feet.Anyway, thanks for the photos, John!

Heading North

Finally made it round the toe of Britain. Lots of it is lovely. Land's End itself is a reeking sock, with expensive parking, a bizarre display of 'artfully-placed' faux standing stones mixed in with a miniature village, and a '4D' Doctor Who experience. That's 2D on a screen, 1D in the time you waste, and 1D of the bit of your soul that you'll leave there forever. In the past, we used woad and aggression to deter invaders from the south. Nowadays, we rely on an 'Experience'. The Land's End Experience should not be experienced, and whoever is responsible should be dangled over the edge of the cliff until they see the error of their ways. In 4D.

But everything else was lovely.

Especially Cape Cornwall, which curiously looks like Scotland:
And Saint Michael's Mount, which looks like France:
And most of all Gwithian, next to Sennen Cove, which looks like - and probably is - Paradise:
I looked up a photographer friend, Tup, whom I met in Thurso waaaay back in October. We went surfing one day and shark-hunting two days later. Shark-hunting is a bit like wave-hunting, except a bit less anxious (these were Basking Sharks, which eat plankton, not Great White Sharks, which eat surfers). Tup claimed he had seen several the day before, from the safety of a small plane, a claim that gained more validity the following day, when two of his photographs appeared in The Sun. So Tup is basically a Shark Paparazzo. Or Sharkarrazzo.

I also nipped over to Falmouth for a charming drink with fellow writer James Henry and a night on Falmouth quayside. A night on Falmouth quayside is less exciting than one might imagine. Apart from the seagulls, which used the roof of my van as a landing strip. Or as a target.

Since then, I've been working my way up the coast, with some fabulous waves and some not so fabulous waves, in fabulous weather and some not so fabulous weather.
Karen, who is not a Sharkarrazzo, managed this fantastic shot of me on a wave at Duckpool.
Her career as a Surferazzo is still in its infancy. But after my camera battery died, she did see me on a wave that she described as "really impressive" (entirely without prompt or payment), and which was indeed the highlight of the past ten days - a long, peeling, overhead left that I at last managed to surf with balance and poise, if not actual grace.

Then a couple of days en famille with los Barkers and los Gibsons in Puttsborough, where the waves were again fabulous, the company was fabulous and the weather was mostly fabulous. And my surfing was far from fabulous.

Now I'm back in Saint Agnes, after fun sessions at Perranporth and Chapel Porth in small, clean, easy waves (unlike the filthy monsters at Putts), waiting for Skippy to finish repairing my board. Then off up to Newquay, where I scored a great afternoon of head-high waves a week ago, which slightly redeems Newquay from 'Somewhere to avoid like the plague' to 'Somewhere to avoid like a sore throat'.
Nice waves, but you wouldn't want to hang out there if you're over 19. And I am indeed over 19, despite repeated attempts to demonstrate otherwise, both in and out of the water.

The End of the World

After the delays and distractions of the last couple of months, I'm back on the road. I picked up the trail in Wembury, just east of Plymouth. Last time I was there, it was a mist-shrouded, gothic vale of dark, satanic menace. This time it was sun-filled and beautiful. Plus I met a badger ambling down the footpath by the church. I've never met a badger before. Consequently I acted with rather less equanimity than the badger, which ambled on, oblivous.

Then a sprint through Plymouth in the rain, south to Gunwalloe, where I managed a slack surf in barely-surfable conditions. It was great to get in the water and the shock of being back in a wetsuit was mitigated by the pleasure of not having to wear hood, gloves and boots now. Though I regretted the boots.And the water is amazing! So clear! It's like southern Portugal, maybe clearer. You can see every stone, every wisp of floating weed, and yesterday, every jelly fish (royal blue, easy to spot and rare enough not to be a major worry). And of course, the scenery is stunning.
Here I am at The Lizard, taking the obligatory, sad-bloke-visiting-a-major-landmark-on-his-own shot. It's further south than Land's End (of which more next time), so feels more like the End of the Land than Land's End. But that's marketing for you. Lizard doesn't sound as appealing as Land's End, so everyone goes there instead.
The forecast on the south coast wasn't looking promising, so I skipped up north, to Godrevy. Coincidentally, it's the location of the lighthouse that appears (or fails to appear) in Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse. It almost fails to appear in this photo, too.
Godrevy was great! One average surf in small waves, one appalling surf in big waves (wrong board, snapped leash, lost nerve), then one absolutely fabulous session in powerful, head-high waves, as dark as Davy Jones' Locker, with decent walls and no one surfing my end of the beach, which is always a bonus.
The north end of Godrevy is covered in rocks, which are in the way at high tide. But at low tide they look like this:
Yes, mussels, and plenty of them. So what's a feral surfer to do, except this?
Followed by this:
Delicious!

The forecast had picked up on the South Coast, so I decided to take a look at Porthleven. Like Thurso, it's a well-known, well-respected reef. I was only going to take a look...

But when I got there, it was foggy and there only seemed a couple of people out there. If I was going to surf it, it was now or never. Tomorrow it might be flat. Or worse, packed with pros. If you click on the photo, you'll see it's about head high, with someone just taking the drop.
I paddled out, full of trepidation, and prepared to do battle. There were a handful of locals out there, who, if not actually welcoming, didn't seem to mind the arrival of a middle-aged incompetent in their midst. The reef was working well, with clean lines coming in and being picked off by the locals with apparent ease. I waited my turn, and when the line-up was clear because everyone had just caught something, paddled smoothly into a small line pulsing my way.

Except by the time it hit me, it was a vicious, vertical wall of power intent on chewing me up and hurling me to the reef bed. Which is where I duly went. Rats.

I waited my turn again. Paddled. And saw the gaping void open up in front of me again. Yikes! I'm not going down there! The next two hours were a testament to cowardice, incompetence and humilliation. Hours: two. Waves attempted: a handful. Number of times my feet met my board: two. Waves caught: zero. I paddled in, weak with exhaustion and self-loathing.

The next morning, I was determined to do better. The swell had dropped, but this was worse, as there were fewer waves for more surfers. Rats again. This time, I spent most of my time going over the falls. Surprisingly, this seemed like progress. At least I was going for it, even if my timing was out. Finally, though, I actually caught a wave! Shoulder high, smooth and powerful. And such a relief! I don't think I could have paddled in without catching one, and might still be there now, flailing like a drowning butterfly. And after that, a second! It would have been nice to have caught a third, but let's not be greedy.

The main break is to the right of the harbour wall. To the left is a smaller, closer break where the local youth test their prowess.

And the rest of the youth watch them.

Surfing Goa II

First of all, apologies to Joaquin, Kukurusta and an anonymous poster going by the name of My Conscience (a.k.a. Mark), who have all left comments in the last month, but which I failed to spot. Thanks for reading and commenting. Sorry not to have been around.

I'm back on the road, in Cornwall. But first, to conclude my last post:

Surfing. Goa: April. 19 days, 17 surf days, 21 sessions.... it's never going to be a surf destination, or even a proper surfing holiday, but if you're going there, and you have a board you can take, then take it. You won't regret it! I had a fab time, surfing almost every morning before breakfast. It's a great way to start the day.
Most mornings started off still and glassy, with waves between thigh high and head high. Some days were weaker than others, and they were never particularly powerful, although a few days were fabulous - long, peeling waves which held up well for decent long rides on nicely shaped faces. I'm afraid the photos don't do the waves justice. Karen very kindly came along one morning to take photos. Not only were the waves distinctly average, it also turns out I don't surf well under pressure. After all, I don't surf particularly well when there's no pressure...
The beaches I saw around South Goa were only really surfable from low to mid-tide. After that, it starts to close out or shore dump too much. And around mid-morning, the on-shore wind picks up, making it rough surfing - though I had a couple of fun sessions in the last few days in spite of the wind. So basically you need to be up early, and to catch the tide when it's good and low. Either that, or take your chances with the wind.

For the first week I was alone, but then I met Lee, an English musician who divides his time between Hong Kong and Goa. We had three or four excellent sessions together - he was on a 9' Bic, and taught me the value of patience. Often, he would be way out to sea, where I thought there was no chance of a wave. Then eventually something would appear on the horizon, he would announce "Here we go, old chap" and elegantly stroke into a decent wave.
Then I met Trevor and Deborah, from Bournemouth, who also spend 5 months a year in Goa. We surfed together for the last three days, Trevor on an 8' barge, Deborah mostly on a body board, but flirting with a 7´6´´ Bic. Trevor, if you're reading this: paddle harder! Deborah, if you're reading this: Don't listen to Trevor!

Top comedy moment was when a fish, alarmed by Trevor on his barge, leaped out of the face of the unbroken wave, heading directly to shore. It dived back into the water, then skipped out again, still heading to the shore in a straight line. Then did it again. And a fourth time. Just like a cartoon fish.

Surfing the same wave day in, day out has definite advantages - you really get to know how it works. And how your board works. And surfing in glassy conditions every day is fantastic - it really flatters your surfing, so you gain lots of confidence, which in turn helps your surfing. I really think surfing is 50% technique, 50% confidence. Maybe more. Though sometimes too much confidence isn't a good thing. Like when you're trying a floater when the wave is trying to dump on the shore. I'm not entirely clear where the water went, or which bit of the board tried to perforate me, but I suspect it was the tip. Not so much Kelly Slater, more Vlad the Impaler.
Apart from that (and landing on my head in knee deep water the day before) the only downside with taking a board is transporting it, especially on the overnight train. In the end, I had no choice. We had to share a bunk. It was either that or leave it behind.
And I wasn't going to leave it behind after all the fun we'd had.

Surfing in Goa

(For more info, see the next post, here)

My trip around Britain has been temporarily interrupted by a three-week trip to Goa to hang out with Karen, who has been travelling around India while I've been bumming around Britain. Check out her blog HERE. She also took all the photos in this post. Swapping the chilly waves of Devon for the bathwater-warm waves of Southern India has been really tough.I knew from a visit in 2006 that there are very few surfboards in India, and even fewer you can get your hands on, as most of them are owned by individuals who don't want some snotty stranger dinging their pride and joy. There are no surf shops, no surf hire and no surf repair workshops. If anyone is looking for a business opportunity, this could be it. (Not me. As the comments on the post below show, having taken advice from a civil service lawyer, I'm off to become a chartered accountant.) The only boards are big foam things for the lifeguards at the more touristy beaches.The big question is, is it worth bringing a board to India? Along with no boards, there seemed to be no waves (a possible explanation for the absence of boards). A couple of websites hinted there was some swell, particularly in the monsoon season, May to September. I was going in April.

I certainly wouldn't want to bring one of my normal boards. Consigning a board to the hold of a plane is a complete lottery. Mostly they emerge unscathed. When they don't, it's pretty gruesome. And that's before submitting them to the rigours of Indian trains, buses and tuk tuks. Also I had booked a flight with BA, who will only carry boards under 195cms. Or 6'3''. My shortest board is a 6'5'', and I wouldn't want to lose 2" off the end. Either end.

But I once rented a 6' NSP Fish, which was quite a laugh. Plus, being a shell (an injection moulded plastic board, I think), it would better withstand the rigours of the journey. In South Devon I found something similar - a secondhand 6'2" epoxy Southpoint for 160 quid. Basically one step up from a BIC or NSP. They let me rent it for a few days first, and I took it for a test ride in Salcombe. It rode OK, but it isn't really what I was looking for. I was literally on my way to return it, when I found a chat forum on the internet raving about surfing in Goa. What the hell. I might as well take it. It's fairly light, counted as part of my baggage allowance and I could always sell it or donate it to some beach-side orphanage if necessary. Better to have a board and find there is no surf, than to have no board and find there is.I'm staying in a dozy huddle of beach huts stretched around a small bay, about 2 miles south of ( a fairly well-known, fairly busy destination for backpackers in Goa. The bay there is shell shaped, and while the waves are clean and pretty, they are weak and virtually unsurfable at the moment. Here looked similarly unsurfable, with a steeply shelving beach. There are waves, but they rise up abruptly then crash down violently only a metre or two from the edge of the sand. Impossible to surf.

Here is one of the many beach dogs, desperately waiting for the swell to pick up.Here's one who has given up waiting.

The cows have definitely given up waiting.

But at the far end of the next beach, around a short outcrop of rock, there seemed to be something happening. On my first evening, Karen and I went to investigate. Sure enough, it was a surfable wave, breaking on a shallow sandbank at the mouth of a river. The next morning I got up early, grabbed my board, paddled round the rocky outcrop, made the long walk along the beach and dived in. After a winter wearing a thick wetsuit, hood, gloves and boots, paddling in trunks feels really strange. Not just light and free, it feels as if you're going to float away. There was a nice, shapely wave there, rising up to about chest level, peeling nicely.

On the way, you pass the big, fuck-off hotel, an utter abomination which is currently enlivened by a big Bollywood film crew who have built a film set by the beach, and are currently filming. Fortunately, they don't seem to mind me surfing, as there is a better break right in front of the film set schoolhouse. In the mornings, there isn't a breath of wind, so the water is smooth and glassy. Chest-high peaks rise up and peel for twenty metres of so, easy to catch, easy to surf, but closing out rather too quickly, and breaking in shallow water. It's not the most dramatic surfing, but better than nothing, so I've been getting up early and getting into the water for an hour or two every morning before breakfast. By about 11, an on-shore wind picks up, making the already weak waves virtually uncatchable.

But one evening, at low tide, I went for a classic sunset session and managed to catch a few.
Karen was on the beach, and before she got bored of watching me, managed to snap this fabulous action shot. Finally, proof that I can actually stand on a surf board.
Soon after this, I noticed something about fifty metres further out. I couldn't be sure, but eventually I saw it again. A fin arcing lazily out of the water then disappearing under again. I wasn't quite surfing with dolphins, but they were definitely out there. Later we watched it idle slowly along the bay, parallel to the beach:It's not all surfing and lazing on the beach - I've been hard at work on the outline for a screenplay. To prove it, here is a picture of me at my desk!
Now where was that application to become a chartered accountant?