But, unlike the gut-wrenching, ice-cold, rapids of the frozen Canadian north, these were friendly, fun, rapids – white water to be sure but so shallow that if the boat tipped you’d graze your knees standing up rather than be swimming for your life. About five minutes later, already around the next bend, my son asked, “Where’s that weir then?”īefore I could answer we were into the first of many rapids. There was a slight bump as we crossed an almost invisible undulation, a mere ripple in the glassy river. The unmistakable roar of white water betrayed its approach. Our canoes were open, Canadian style and robust, I was glad to see, because almost at once we were upon the first weir. The tour company, Headwater, would carry our bags by van to each hotel while we paddled. We had allowed eight days – four of paddling, with a day off for walking, biking and exploring after each. Instead, we would tackle an 80km midsection, between Thezel and the celebrated tourist hotspot of Sarlat. You could canoe it from the source but a series of dams and long lakes make it harder and you’d need your own boat. It rises on the slopes of the Puy de Sancy, a mountain in the Massif Central, then crosses France to join the Garonne, close to Bordeaux, before entering the Atlantic. The Dordogne has to be the quintessential French river – the Loire is wilder, the Tarn has more gorges, the Seine is more sedate but none has the character, grace and interest of this mid-country river. At about 500km, it is longer and wider than the Thames, is more scenic, has shallows and rapids, and a ban on motor boats. My wife, kids and I were going to tackle the Dordogne. There was no one else on the river.Īfter 10 years of hearing about a 2,000-mile journey I made across Canada in a birchbark canoe, my family had agreed to come on another great voyage with me. I decided to take a rest and just drift for a while. Meanwhile the children, 12 and 14, were having fun zigzagging and lagging behind on the empty river, great willow trees bending down to touch the surface, as we slid by on the current. After a briefing on paddling strokes, we set off with our life jackets and helmets (only my daughter elected to wear hers) from Thezel in light, very English, drizzle.Īs I was supposed to be an expert already, I tried a few “J strokes”, a rather fancy way of paddling that I recalled had never felt entirely natural.
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