The banks hear were built up some time ago when large horse drawn barges would navigate up stream carrying coal or grain, the Georgian brick and stone work still visible through the stems of river sage and willow. Where the roots of trees have managed to push through, the stone work has collapsed into the water forming convenient perches for the ever vigilant heron who seem to patrol every inch of the river, there 'S' shape silhouette only made visible by the dash of white around their 'post it' yellow bill, and the two black feathers that they wear like a sash around their head. Between the stone of the jetties, the banks of the river have become completely wild again, without mans interference nature has managed to transform the river. Banks have eroded, the beginnings of Ox bow lakes have begun to form where the meandering water has cut into the soft clay, and the submerged branches of long dead trees loom out of the clear water like the spindly bones of skeleton hands that scrape at the bottom of our kayaks.
It was on one of these half submerged trees that we saw something move! As we approached we could see that it was an otter who was busy playing, diving into the water and climbing out again, using the branches as an impromptu diving board. We were quietly drifting trying to make no noise or any movement as we approached ever closer to the otters own personal part of the river. My camera was in the pocket of my jacket, only accessible via a loud velcro flap 'typical'. As we drew within five feet the otter looked at us for a second, as if in bewilderment, then slipped quietly and gracefully into his watery underworld, his fur, like dark silk mirrored the surface of the water. We watched as it slipped under us and away, a ring of bubbles appearing every couple of feet as it eased it self to the far bank. He seemed to stay with us for a while, every now and then we would catch sight of his black head as it poked out of the water to take a look.
After the wildness of this part of the river, man takes over again, and the river runs broad and straight, it also starts to show the first signs of tidal rise and fall. At a place called Camphire a large stone build bridge used to cross hear, but was knocked to make way for a more modern ugly mass concert one to take the rigors of modern day traffic. About half a mile beyond this bridge the River Bride comes to an end as her waters meet and mingle with that of the mighty River Blackwaters. The full effect of the new river soon takes hold as we enter her. The force of the water rushing out with the tide swept us along, as exposed mud flap where flocks of waders seemed to appear out of no where rose up out of the retreating waters.
We followed the river past vast bastions of rock that once held fortified castle's and long since destroyed Abby's. The splashes of sea trout erupted unpredictably around us as we were lost in the vastness of her water. Small stone built quay's all hiding rotting hulls of wood built craft seemed to be on every sheltered bend, and the dark angular silhouette of cormorants would glide low over the waters edge, then come to rest on some perch and watch, wings stretched out, Christ like as we paddled past.
Our rendezvous point with the car was at a place called TempleMichael. This was once the sight of a fortified house belonging to a local Irish clan leader. The House/castle was attacked by the Protestant land owners and the leader of the Clan held out against them by barricading himself in. The land owners then decided to lay siege to it, in order to starve him out. But locals loyal to him smuggled food by way of the river where upon he would lower a basket from the walls. The siege lasted months, and to teach him a lesson they destroyed the house and with the rubble built a protestant church on the sight.
Four hours of sheer bliss! the first of the season for Oli and me.
