The next day (Sunday, almost certainly) was much more like it and, after the groundhog-like morning of boat packing, we bade farewell to our new friends at Eskmeals and paddled out like our lives depended on it. They didn't of course, but we'd had one slow day and one zero-miles day and, in a five day trip, that's quite a bit. The sun shone and the sea remained pretty tranquil as we powered up towards Sellafield which, as landmark features go, is pretty hard to miss. Being the hardy creatures we are, we stopped on the lovely beach that separates the reprocessing plant and the remains of Windscale power station from the sea and had some lunch. The beach was empty and it was strangely peaceful, though I do wonder how quiet it would have been if we'd had a Geiger counter with us!
We set of for on the next leg (to St Bees and the promise of ice cream) and while larking about in completely flat water about 20 yards from the Sellafield shore, I managed to capsize for no good reason at all (maybe my body had a strange craving for some rare radio-isotope not found in sea water elsewhere in the world!). Anyway, with the help of some nicely honed rescue techniques on the part of the others, I was out of the water almost before I hit it - feeling a complete prat, natch.
The journey up to St Bees was great - everyone was happy to be making progress and our boats formed small, constantly changing groups as we chatted and generally got into the groove. We had even a go at swapping our paddles around and, as a result of this, discussing the various merits and demerits of smaller vs larger blades, varying degrees of feather (and how they best fit with high- and low-angle paddling styles) and the pros and cons of carbon over nylon construction. Yup, it was a veritable geek-fest! Before long we got to St Bees bay and, like so many Viking marauders, unleashed ourselves on an unsuspecting holidaying public. Well, that's not really true - actually we got to the beach and flopped down on the sand completely knackered. This time, it was Tom's turn to prostrate himself motionless on the ground, the poor chap lacking even the energy to join Pete and Mark in their quest for a cornetto (that's a cornetto each, by the way - they weren't sharing one!).
After a bit of refreshment we headed out once again, this time with a little excitement and even trepidation as it was time to navigate around the (huge) cliffs of St Bees head. Gosh, it was marvellous, I tell you - huge sandstone walls and more sea-birds of more varieties that you'd probably find in a relatively modest book about sea-birds. Everyone agreed that it was the visual highlight of the trip - even better than Sellafield. As we rounded the Northern section of the head we were all starting to flag a bit and our thoughts turned to looking for a decent place to stop and camp. As cliffs aren't widely renowned for their tent-friendly topology this was harder than expected and, before long, we were pretty close to Whitehaven and in varying stages of fatigue and/or exhaustion. After some nearly-tense discussions as we bobbed around the mouth of Whitehaven harbour, we elected (by only a slim majority) to dig deep and head just a couple more kilometres up the coast to Parton - a smaller settlement with a better chance of us finding a quiet place to camp. By the time we made landfall Tom was nearly delirious with fatigue, as evidenced by him stripping down to just his wetsuit and cavorting in the shallows like an over-excited puppy with a new ball.
The camp was a bit rudimentary - at the end of a track in a spot which looked like a favoured place d'amour for the local yoof but nobody bothered us and we settled down to a great campfire, some tall tales and some strange blackcurrant vodka of Ian's that tasted just like that mouthwash you used to get at the dentist when you were a kid (assuming you were a kid in the 70's or 80's).
We slept like the dead.
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