Adversities of canoeing along the River Barrow in Kildare

Gwen Wilkinson set out from the shores of Lough Erne and navigated a 400km journey to the tidal waters of the River Barrow in Ireland.

More than just a travelogue, ‘The Waters and the Wild’ explores the interwoven histories of the people and wildlife that shaped Gwen’s journey.

As the adventure unfolds, she also shines a light on pioneering women who have left their mark on Ireland’s landscape – both natural and cultural.

The following is what she wrote about County Kildare 

The river whisks me past a dizzying time-lapse of Athy’s architectural heritage, looming medieval
ramparts, Georgian façades and the revolutionary community library ‒ a former church building
built in the ‘Brutalist’ style. The warm sunshine and the weightless buoyancy speeds me towards
euphoria. My mood soars like a bird rising on a thermal current of air. The canoe skims past the
junction to the Barrow Line canal. Memories of my previous canal voyage fizz to the surface: the
humiliating capsize, the bare-knuckle boxers, fast food hallucinations and the otherworldly
environment of Pollardstown Fen. But there’s no time to reminisce. There’s a weir straight ahead,
and the river has intentions of dragging the canoe straight over the falls.
‘Keep close to the bank,’ shouts my father, who has materialised beside me on the towpath,
wheeling along on his bike. The weir curves in a wide arch out from the opposite shore. The pull is
surprisingly strong, and the roaring falls overwhelms all other sound as I skirt along its lip. Most
canoeists shoot the weirs, as the falls are at a gentle incline and the drop is never more than two
metres. It’s a fun experience that comes with a small adrenaline rush, and it’s the easiest way to
avoid the challenging lock portages. If I was paddling a robust fibreglass canoe, I would happily
choose this option, but Minnow isn’t built for weirs; her thin plywood hull would splinter on the
hidden rocks and boulders. I researched the possibility of ‘lining’ the canoe over the weirs ‒
attaching a long rope to the stern and feeding the hull over the falls ‒ but this seemed an equally
risky business, destined to end in tears. It was back to my nemesis, portaging, for the time being.
Safely past the weir, I peel away from the river and guide the canoe into a lateral canal
towards Ardreigh, the first river lock. The still water is treacle-thick, overgrown and dense with
weeds. Within minutes I’m huffing and puffing through a tangle of slippery water lily stems and
trailing long fronds of pondweed. At the entrance to the lock I meet an early challenge ‒ how to
climb ashore? Squinting up at the ‘bikers’ standing silhouetted high above on the quayside, I realise
I haven’t a hope of scaling the wall, and am forced to retrace my way back up the canal in search of
an easier egress. Where the bank is slightly lower, I scramble ashore, strong-armed up by my father.
Between the two of us we carry the canoe along the towpath and around the lock, while my mother
fetches and carries my gear. With twenty-one more locks ahead, clearly this is going to be a slow
journey, requiring no small team effort! Sobered by the experience, we decide to raid the picnic
panniers, tucking into flapjacks washed down by scalding mugs of whiskey-laced coffee. Then it’s
off to rejoin the river just below the lock, a challenge as we hack a way through nettles and cling

perilously to clumps of weeds. It will be a miracle if I survive the journey without a few dunkings.
The river is in sparkling form ‒ energised from tumbling over the weir and rapids. Its
surface is littered with blobs of foam that spin like whirling dervishes in the fast-flowing current.
The canoe joins the flow and is whisked along at warp speed; at least it feels that way to me. For a
time, I manage to keep up with the bikers, who are travelling at full tilt on the towpath. As the
channel widens and deepens, the river relaxes. When I look up, the bikers have disappeared, leaving
me alone on the water. I rest the paddle across the gunnels and let the canoe drift. This is the release
I’ve been craving, and I want to savour it. The past few months have seen us all trapped on a roller-
coaster ride of anxiety, fear, sadness and frustration. Locked down at home, it was impossible to
avoid the wall-to-wall media coverage of the unfolding pandemic. The constant narrative ground
you down and set your nerves on edge. Now, out here on the river, I feel as though I have slipped
that world and entered a parallel universe. A far brighter world charged with optimism and wonder.
A sudden flash from the bank, a tiny fireball of gas-flame blue, streaks across Minnow’s
bow. Taken by surprise with a gasped intake of breath and paddle frozen in mid-air, I follow the
bird’s hurried flight path. There was a time when I kept a headcount of every kingfisher I saw, but
somewhere, back along the Grand Canal, I gave up when they became a commonplace occurrence.
This is my closest encounter yet, almost a collision. The bird was equally surprised; startled in
flight, it fluttered briefly, banked sharply, collected itself and fled crying downriver. In the
breathtaking moment as it tumbled over the canoe, I experienced its kaleidoscopic colours, from the
burnt orange of its breast to the iridescent blues of its back and wing feathers.