Of the many fascinating tidbits found on the information boards along the Wey & Arun Canal, the one that caught my attention above all others was that the last recorded boat to travel from the Thames to the English Channel did so in 1872. These information boards tell the dramatic story of the rise, fall, and future hope for this waterway, bringing a wonderful element of history to the West Sussex and Surrey countrysides. It was in reading this particular tidbit in May 2025 that I realised my foolhardy endeavour to tackle London’s lost route to the sea would be a first for 153 years.
Such recklessness, I should say, is part of a larger picture of recklessness. On Saturday 10th May I departed a sunshine-soaked Bristol Harbour on my 17 foot sea kayak, setting off to reach the Black Sea via the inland waterways of Britain and Europe. In the planning stages of this journey, I was transfixed by the curiously incomplete line that drew from north to south from the River Wey to the River Arun. If I could traverse those broken lines on the map then I could reach England’s south coast, and from there I could easily take the ferry from Newhaven to Dieppe. The idea was thrilling to me. But could it be done?
I reached out to Gordon Powell, one of the many wonderful volunteers of the Wey & Arun Canal Trust, for help. Such a feat had been attempted a few years before by a small group, he told me, but it seemed that a combination of time constraints and failing kayak trolleys had thwarted their efforts. But they’d shown me that it could be done, and that was all I needed to settle that this would be my route. Little did I know what I was letting myself in for.
Fast forward to late May and I was jubilant to have spent ten inconceivably beautiful and sunny days kayaking from Bristol to Weybridge. From the River Avon, to the Avon & Kennet Canal, to the River Kennet, and finally to the River Thames, I had spotted otters, caught flashes of kingfishers, and gone from complete disinterest in bird life to an avid enthusiast. Coots, grebes, herons, cormorants, moorhens – I now knew them all, and that was just by day. By night, the sounds of owls, cuckoos and woodpeckers penetrated the thin walls of my tent, and if I stayed out long enough I was bound to see the silhouette of one of them arcing across the night sky. Terns held a special place in my heart for saving me from at least some of the mayflies that seemed magnetised to my green kayak along the waters, swooping ahead of me in flocks to pluck them out of the river and air alike. But it was the skimming-stone flight paths of the wagtails that has ultimately won me over – I have been overjoyed to see them flit across my bow to bob elegantly on low branches of overhanging trees. Indeed, I had been totally immersed in the waterways, although – up to that point – not literally immersed in them. That was still to come.
Indeed, it was a bad omen that my last act on the River Wey, just as I arrived to the beginnings of what was once the canal at Shalford, was to fall in it. I had been obeying the ‘Private Waters’ sign strung across the narrowing river, and thereby attempting to climb up a rather steep and muddy bank. I ended up scrambling up it from waist-high water, soaked from hip to toe, and muddied considerably. As such, when I got onto the towpath and had hauled my heavy, gear-loaded kayak onto its trolley and marched off on my long portage, I did so to the sound of squelching.
The towpath, while it lasted, made for a very agreeable portage. It was when the Wey-South Path would diverge from it and head off down narrow, scarcely-used footpaths, that I would begin to understand the scale of the challenge I’d set myself. It was not made easier by the fact that the path is, at times, poorly marked, and by my lack of foresight to bring a map. Following footpaths, I was reminded, is somewhat different to following rivers and canals.
Nevertheless I forged on, staying as true to the original Wey & Arun Canal route as the path would allow. I caught glimpses of water, but rarely enough to make launching the kayak worthwhile, for I would only have to clamber out again shortly thereafter. The dry spell we had enjoyed since I left Bristol was seeming a little less fortunate now, for the canal was surely even drier than usual.
I also caught glimpses of the work that is going on along the canal, and was starting to appreciate the monumental effort that is required of the Trust. From the engineering work, to the ever present maintenance requirements, not to mention the fundraising, communications, and no doubt mountain of paperwork, I found myself in awe of everything that is being attempted here. It reminded me of how I once tried to set up a film club at a local library, which one would hope to be a fairly straightforward endeavour. But after months of delays from the council and various other bodies that had to be brought into the process, I simply gave up. I shudder at the thought of how difficult it must be to restore miles and miles of canal, and yet there were very obvious signs of progress being made.
On my second day I reached Loxwood and met some volunteers at the centre. I learned of other various challenges, such as the fact that the canal route goes through what is now many different people’s private land. Standing there in my still wet shoes, having done my level best to avoid ‘Private Waters’ the day before, this struck me as a particularly unfortunate challenge to have to deal with. But what struck me more than anything was volunteer Phil’s admission that the canal most likely wouldn’t be restored in his lifetime. It was the not the first time I had heard somebody say as much, and I find it terrifically admirable that so many volunteers must be plugging away at this project despite such a prospect.
I left the centre feeling inspired, and was also extremely pleased that a reliable stretch of water spanned out ahead of me which I could kayak along. I was further gladdened by the fact that I had purchased a guidebook for the Wey-South Path at the centre, and very thankful that they had gifted me an old OS Map that would guide me along the footpaths down to the River Arun. Both were invaluable during my remaining journey (and I don’t deny would have been rather useful at the start of it too.)
Paddling along the section of canal away from the centre, I couldn’t help but notice that that this waterway was – although extremely pretty – not as full of the wildlife that had dominated the rivers and canals I had come along before. But – and this is the thing – one day it will be just like them. One day this will again be a corridor along which wildlife can flourish, and boaters can come to enjoy it for all that it will be. And they will have the innumerable volunteers who have selflessly dedicated many, many years to thank for it, despite the fact that many will never be able to enjoy it themselves. In that moment, more so than any other on this ridiculous few days of dragging my kayak along the canal, I saw fully what the Trust has envisioned, and it is a beautiful picture.
The most ridiculous was still to come, however. After a welcome stopover and rest at the Bat & Ball pub in Newpound, I began my last stretch of portage. A couple of hours in, with an aching back and blistering hands, I came upon a field with cows in. It didn’t occur to me that this might be a problem, although probably it should have done. When I entered the field they were a couple of hundred yards away. By the time I was halfway through it, they were upon me.
Whether they thought my kayak, rumbling and clattering along behind me, was food or foe I do not know. What I do know is that when a herd of cows starts running at me, I will not hang around. I dropped my precious cargo and sprinted for the cover of a tree astride the canal side. From this relative safety, I watched aghast as the cows approached my kayak at first tentatively – which by now must have looked very much like a trough full of lunch – and then go quite mad over it.
Thankfully all of the hatches were sealed shut, but the cockpit was open and inside lingered an array of interesting items. With dismay I watched a cow lift my bag of valuables up in its mouth and begin to chomp away. Visions of arriving to France the following week and having to explain in broken French that a cow had eaten my passport flashed through my mind. Another had picked up my kindly donated OS Map, and was happily chewing on that. The rest of the herd were getting rowdy and randy at the scene: one cow mounted another in excitement, while another used its head to tip my kayak upside down. I was sure it would have snapped my paddle protruding from the cockpit, and I shouted my displeasure at them. They roundly ignored me.
In the end, all I could do was wait with my hands on my head in disbelief. The cows had, mercifully for all concerned, spat the items out and gradually they were growing disinterested. The trough that had promised so much was proving to be quite the disappointment. Once they had wandered back across the field, I took my chance. Walking briskly to the kayak I surveyed the damage – there was none! – and swiftly launched into the canal quicker than one could say “ moo”. The cows by this point were back, but I was already paddling away. At the end of the field the water hit a blocked tunnel, but fortunately I was able to exit on the other side of the fence, and reprimand the onlooking livestock from the safety of the other side.
Challenges still remained, although I’m glad to say they were not of a bovine nature. Bridleways became footpaths, and with them stiles and kissing gates became my new nemeses. The kayak, with all my camping gear, clothes, supplies and personal belongings inside, was getting on for 50kg. And at 5 metres long, I couldn’t exactly pop it on my back to hop the fence. Instead I had to empty the contents at each obstacle, and lift everything over individually. As such, when a section of the River Arun came into view, one can understand why I was tempted into trying to paddle along it.
This was, it transpired, a terrible alternative. Just as I rounded the first bend of the narrow River Arun, a fallen tree blocked my way. Undeterred, I squeezed my way through its branches, and gave myself a pat on the back. This was the way to do it, I told myself. But another fallen tree awaited me around the next bend, and another after that. Suffice it to say that when I yanked my kayak back up the riverbank half an hour later, my only rewards were having travelled the length of a single field and acquiring the appearance of a walking bird’s nest. I brushed the twigs, leaves and insects from me, and trudged on along the Wey-South path.
The following morning, on the fourth day of traversing the Wey & Arun Canal, I came upon Pallingham Double Locks, marking the navigable beginning of the River Arun. Well, I say I came upon them, but in fact I could not find them. As best I could tell, they were on private land, as was much of the River Arun after that. It seemed I had two choices. I could either approach one of the houses and plead with them to grant me access to the river, or to carry on portaging until the footpath met the river again further downstream. The latter, you will understand, was not at all an enticing option. As it was then, and no doubt as many a Trust volunteer has had to do over the years, I knocked on the door to somebody’s home and explained my mission to them. It was not a mission, I emphasised, that could be completed without a bit of help – or, at the very least, consent – from them. I got lucky, and the elderly couple and their nurse whose house I had walked up to were very obliging. They not only let me access the River Arun from their beautiful garden, but filled up my water packs for me too.
When I was coming along the waterways from Bristol I saw many a beautiful garden, and I have no doubt that the garden was all the more beautiful for having a full flowing river or canal at the bottom of it. I firmly believe the properties and the people who own the land along the Wey & Arun Canal’s route have so much to benefit from by endorsing the restoration of the Wey & Arun Canal, as does the local economy, culture, and – most importantly of all in my book- the wildlife.
I finished my journey to the sea in Littlehampton the following morning. It was a relief to be back on the water, paddling amongst the birds and river banks once again. It was not, however, without incident itself: that the River Arun has a tidal range of 5 metres was news to me, as was the fact that it is rather problematic to escape its steep, reed-ridden banks at low tide. Nonetheless, as I hope will be the case as I head across to Europe for the summer, I managed to find a way.
It has been nothing if not interesting, being the first boat to navigate the Wey & Arun Canal for 153 years. It is my earnest hope that it will not be another century and a half before a boat can do it again, but rather a whole lot sooner, and in the way that it should be done. That is, on water from start to finish. Water that is filled with fish, a surface that is buzzing with insects, and surrounded by an air that is absolutely alive with the sounds of birds. Hundreds and hundreds of birds.
Tom Dymond is, when life allows, a travel writer from the southwest of England. He has written of his travels around the world by sailboat, and around Bristol as a postie. He is currently embarking on his latest chapter, kayaking from Bristol to the Black Sea. His books are available online at Amazon and Waterstones, and you can find out more on his website, tsdymond.com, and follow him on Instagram at @tsdymond.