Adventure on the Dart
Pat Kinsella and his teenage daughter Ivy take to their kayaks for a soothing weekend escape paddling along Devon's most gorgeous river
“The trick to making it enjoyable is to paddle in the same direction as the tide”
Gliding across the water, with town sounds rapidly fading in my wake and a blue sky ahead, a frisson of excitement ripples through me. Paddling from Totnes to Dartmouth, with a night camping right on the riverbank, feels like the perfect two-day adventure.
Close to its source on Dartmoor, the River Dart is an unruly white-water torrent. By the time it reaches Totnes, in contrast, the river is broad and its flow sedate. From here, kayakers and canoeists of any ability can simply put in and go with the flow. Or against it, if your paddling partner happens to be a recalcitrant teenager.
Speaking of whom, I glance over my shoulder. Behind me, Totnes church tower, beautifully bathed in sunlight, is being stalked by a bunch of bruised clouds. But the surly weather isn’t the only tempestuous force of nature that concerns me. Halfway back towards our put-in point, my 14-year-old daughter, Ivy, sits in her kayak, shooting me a thunderous glare.
“Dad!” she yells. “I’m going backwards.”
“That’s because you are not paddling forwards,” I explain. Again. “And the tide is coming in.”
OLD MAN RIVER
All year round, you can legally paddle the tidal stretches of English rivers, like this part of the Dart. The trick to making the experience enjoyable, though, is to go in the same direction as the tide, instead of fighting it. Like we are.
For the record, this isn’t a planning error. It’s part of a trade-off. After some Olympic-standard eyebrow
LEFT After parking in the Longmarsh car park at Totnes then packing the kayaks with their camping gear, Ivy and Pat are ready to paddle INSET Is this a warning of teenagers ahead?
gymnastics when I had first suggested this dad-and-daughter odyssey, Ivy had eventually agreed to accompany me, but on two strict conditions:
1) I wouldn’t make her get up early on the first day, and 2) afterwards, I would buy her an ice cream the size of her head. “And don’t expect me to enjoy it,” she had cautioned – meaning the kayaking, not the ice cream.
Dartmouth’s tide tables for the only window-ofopportunity weekend on the calendar quickly informed me that we risked going against the incoming tide for the first section unless we started very early – but we’d made a deal.
SETTING OFF
Fortunately, despite the late start and an unfavorable tidal current, the first part of our trip is easily the shortest. So long as Ivy deigns to dip a blade in the water occasionally, we’ll be at the campsite within a couple of hours.
Circling back, I opportunistically grab a photo of her against a backdrop of a sign reading ‘Dead Slow, No Wash’ – which is aimed at boats approaching Totnes, but could describe some teenagers I know. Ivy growls and then, despite herself, cracks a smile. A fish jumps between our boats, and we start to paddle side by side. In the right direction. Progress is made.
An eerie noise right above our heads causes us to exchange startled looks. It is a gaggle of low-flying Canada geese, with the wind rushing cacophonously through their feathers. We laugh at each other’s alarmed expressions, and happily chat while paddling past Sharpham Point.
I am thrilled. Until recently, Ivy had been my go-to outdoor buddy – always up early and eager to explore. Adolescence had arrived and overnight her enthusiasm for wild adventures with her old man had waned. I’d always known it would happen, but this
long-planned, pandemic-delayed escapade offers a chance to share at least one more memory-making dad-and-daughter outing.
On the bank to our right, a vineyard sprawls around the grounds of Sharpham House, an 18th-century Palladian villa. The beautiful bathing house that tiptoes right into the river here is available for overnight stays. Our accommodation plans are more modest, but we will enjoy the same view, because just around the next tree-fringed bend is Ashprington
Point and Point Field Campsite. Operated by the Sharpham Trust, this basic campsite has everything we need – and not one thing more. There are long-drop eco toilets, freshwater taps, flat space for putting up tents, and a fire pit.
It is perfect. Several other tents dot the site, but the occupants are all out – messing about on the river, no doubt. There’s something magical about a campsite only accessible from the water. It bestows a feeling of exclusivity that has nothing to do with snobbiness or wealth. To arrive here, you first have to embark on an adventure. And when the others return – paddling canoes, kayaks, stand-up paddleboards and even a dinghy – we instantly have something in common to talk about around the fire.
I first found this place years ago, during a wild swim with a friend from Blackwater Point to Sharpham. On that occasion, an inquisitive seal kept us company all the way to Point Field, where it played in the shallows, delighting the campers. I’d been planning to come back with Ivy ever since. And here we are. No sign of the seal, sadly, but the setting is just as special as I remember it.
Ivy collects wood while I pitch the tent, and soon the fire is roaring, with foil-wrapped potatoes baking beneath the embers. The river rises and falls around us as the tide peaks and then retreats, leaving oystercatchers, shelducks, redshanks and dunlins to dig for muddy treasure.
SOUTH TO THE MOUTH
Dawn doesn’t allow anyone sleeping in a tent to lie in – not even teenagers – so
Ivy sees a side of Sunday she had forgotten existed. Her mood seems buoyant, though. She won’t admit it, but there are signs of fun being had.
We break camp quickly to ride the outgoing tide, which totally transforms the experience. It feels as though we are flying along compared to the previous day’s dawdling.
On cue, the clouds part and the sun shines. The river, too, tangibly changes at this point in its seaward journey.
The Harbourne River joins us at Bow Creek, and as we paddle past the pretty village of Stoke Gabriel, the
Dart begins to open its throat.
This stretch of river is gorgeous, with verdant woods crowding the bank all the way to Sandridge Point. At Dittisham we dodge dinky boats ferrying people across the river to Greenway House, Agatha Christie’s much-loved home. A young Walter Raleigh lived nearby, too, and the land around Old Mill Creek is still owned by the Raleigh Estate.
A panting steam train charges along the east bank towards Kingswear, overtaking us as we enter historic Dartmouth Harbour, famously protected by twin castles. The river yawns wide and suddenly boats bob all around us: yachts, pleasure cruisers, car ferries and the country’s last coal-powered paddle steamer.
Our take-out point is the jetty just past the main marina, right by the bus stop. We’ve timed our landing to perfection, and once the kayaks are safely on the pontoon, I catch the bus back to Totnes and collect the car, while Ivy minds the boats amid a gathering mizzle.
The sun may have disappeared, but making good on my second promise, I return clutching two immense ice creams. As I’m about to dive into mine – a decadent dollop of ‘Salcombe Mud’ (made with cocoa and chocolate shortbread) from a South Devon dairy – a shadow looms. Instinctively, I duck, but it’s too late: a seagull snatches the entire cone.
Next to me Ivy is in tears of laughter. It’s the happiest I’ve seen her in ages. “Thanks dad,” she splutters. “I enjoyed that.”
Pat Kinsella is a Devon-based guidebook author and adventure journalist, with a passion for paddling kayaks and canoes. He set a speed record for consecutively kayaking the longest lakes in England, Scotland and Wales.