Carlingford Lough is a beautiful spot, but if paddlers get their timing of wrong while sea kayaking Carlingford, they are in for a tough time, writes GARY QUINN
Sea Kayaking Carlingford: THE VIKINGS fought amongst themselves over it, Queen Meadbh and Cú Chulainn battled in the hills overlooking it, and former Taoiseach Charles Haughey faced down the British navy in it. So why did it take me so long to realise how exciting it is to be sea kayaking in Carlingford?
I’ve walked the hills on the Cooley peninsula many times. I know how beautiful it is and how well served for all sorts of tourism, but somehow, on the water, I had expected a calm paddle around a lovely lough. As I’ve been planning my routes, I’ve been pushing Carlingford down the list, searching for the bigger waters of Donegal and Kerry. Now, as I launch under blue skies at low tide, I have no idea that I am about to face one of the biggest skill tests of this series so far.
That low tide should have been my first warning. I’ve been taught to head out on an ebbing tide. That is, paddle with the direction of the tide as the water flows out of the lough. But, because I slept late, made a few diversions, went for sandwiches in Carlingford and generally had a lazy start, I’m pushing out into a flooding tide.
I plan to make it out to Haulbowline Lighthouse, a round trip of about 18km from Carlingford and which sits at the mouth of the lough. Conditions are good: light breeze, blue skies, no wind over tide. Paddling against the tide will be hard, but I don’t mind that. I’ve been training for stamina and distance, so this should be a good test.
I’m heading first for Greenore, feeling the pressure of the building tide in my arms and legs. I knew that the tide would be extreme at the head of Greenore so I’ve decided to ferry glide against the tide and cross the bay. I also know that the speed of flow could hit five knots or more at this point, so it’s best to avoid it. Sea kayaks rarely get above four knots, unless they’re sprinting, so trying to push into that would have been misguided.
The ferry glide is still hard going. The tide was strengthening and, as I cross, the clouds start to close in. There are a number of small islands in Carlingford that uncover at low tide, which I know will slowly disappear as the tide increases, but shockingly, one entire island was swallowed up by the sea in the blink of an eye. I literally looked the other way, and suddenly it was gone. Exciting stuff – the sea is a crafty opponent – but good reason to pick landmarks that are really on land. It was at this point that I realise this won’t be the leisurely paddle I’d expected and bizarrely began to enjoy it even more.
WITH THE CLOUDS come a squall of wind and rain. Finding yourself pushing into an unexpected squall can be exciting – if you’re prepared for it. You have to use all your skills to stay on track, push through the wind, ignore the rain in your face and still make progress over the tide. You have to keep a watch on your group, read how the weather might progress and identify and communicate a way-station to regroup and plan your next move.
As the rain is now torrential, I decide to pull in, laughing at the view behind us. The blue skies are engulfed by black clouds and the mountains are almost invisible. I eat my lunch in the teeming rain, trying to stay warm while watching the seals play in the tidal forces pushing between the small rocky islands around me. I start to wonder why I do it, what makes someone seek out enjoyment in conditions that most people would run away from. I can’t find an answer.
But the sea is still calling. I can see the Haulbowline Lighthouse now on the horizon and to get to it would be a coup, especially since I’m going to have to work for it. I pull out into the current again, sticking close to the land in the hope of finding coastal eddies that might help propel me forward. I’m headed for New England Rock now, a peninsula on the northern side of the lough about 30 minutes paddling time.
The tide is in full flow and ferocious. Reefs are churning the water out in the lough, but I want to get to Haulbowline. It’s a beautiful construction: It stands on a small rocky island, but at high tide, it seems to literally float on the water as this rock is submerged. I paddle hard, pushing further and further into the tide until I come broadside on the lighthouse, and I realise that no matter how hard I paddle, I’m being pushed back. I’m literally fighting to stand still, the sea wildly alive and kicking.
As I try to get around the lighthouse, I can almost touch Haulbowline’s thick stone walls. It seems so unfair to have got so far and be constantly pushed back, but this is the sea. It doesn’t do fair, and so, reluctantly, I realise that reaching the lighthouse would be as far as I would get, for today.
But, on the upside, the ride back on the tide into Carlingford is great. With a laugh, I turn around and ride the tide back into port – and it’s a fast, bumpy ride. I’ll definitely return to explore more while sea kayaking Carlingford – lovely lough no more.
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[First published in The Irish Times]
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