Grey Skies, Green Waves

by Tom Anderson

  GREY SKIES, GREEN WAVES

  A Surfer's Journey Around the UK and Ireland

  Tom Anderson

  GREY SKIES, GREEN WAVES

  Copyright © Tom Anderson, 2010

  Map by Breige Lawrence

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, nor transmitted, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publishers.

  The right of Tom Anderson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Condition of Sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  Summersdale Publishers Ltd

  46 West Street

  Chichester

  West Sussex

  PO19 1RP

  UK

  www.summersdale.com

  eSBN: 978-1-84839-441-4

  Substantial discounts on bulk quantities of Summersdale books are available to corporations, professional associations and other organisations. For details contact Summersdale Publishers by telephone: +44 (0) 1243771107, fax: +44 (0) 1243 786300 or email: nicky@summersdale.com.

  CONTENTS

  Map

  Introduction A Fresh Hoodoo

  Chapter 1 A North Wales Wild Sheep Chase

  Chapter 2 A Question of Faith: Croyde Bay and the Jesus Surf Classic

  Chapter 3 An Overnight Run on Britain's Best Wave

  Chapter 4 Losing to an Invisible Longboarder: the Great Newgale Rip-off

  Chapter 5 Cardiff's Suburban Secret Spot

  Chapter 6 Chasing Bill: Cornwall (Part One

  Chapter 7 Surf City UK: Streakers, Drinking Injuries and Inflatable Crocs

  Chapter 8 Chasing Bill: Cornwall (Part Two

  Chapter 9 The River Severn: Britain's Longest Wave

  Chapter 10 First Broken Board

  Chapter 11 The Goldie Lookin' Island

  Chapter 12 Ireland: Waiting for Whoknowswhat…

  Chapter 13 Ceredigion on New Year's Day, and Rainbow's End

  Postscript

  INTRODUCTION

  A FRESH HOODOO

  So this is surfing in Britain, I mused grumpily as I walked up a slope of wet rocks and wispy beach grass, trying to keep a foothold as rain and wind both tried their utmost to send me skidding back down to the freezing beach below. Another early morning dash down to the 'finest surf spot in Wales', another eager drive over the top of the headland at Freshwater West, anticipating great springtime waves – this was supposed to be the year I made a real go of this. And yes, only to be greeted by another sea of miserable wind-blown slop instead of the spectacular surf we'd all been hoping for. Another waste of petrol, even when they still went ahead with the event, another twenty minute paddle against a rip – and for twelve more months I was doomed to kicking myself for yet again going out in the first round of the Welsh Nationals.

  My mates were right. Why did I bother with this rigmarole, year after year?

  Perhaps the longest and most irritating part of what was now becoming an annual tradition for me was the walk (or trudge, perhaps) back from the water pondering what a fool I was for even trying. I knew the whole process off by heart now; riding in to shore lying down, the self-flattering excuses made in the face of the fellow competitors who'd beaten you fair and square, the pointlessly optimistic thought that maybe the result wasn't going to be the way you feared after all – all culminating in that climb back up the rocks to be greeted by a row of smug friends and spectators, all thoroughly amused at my latest humiliation – which had been confirmed over the tannoy moments before I arrived within earshot. It seemed me and the Welsh Nationals just weren't meant to be.

  This particular year, though, I'd outdone even my own spectacular reputation as the 'first-round bomber' – heading the 200 yards or so down to the water's edge at low tide, through virtual gales and driving rain to surf abysmally in what was in fact not only the first round of the event but the very first heat of that very first round. Round one, heat one – and still it got worse. A no-show from the fourth man that would normally make up the numbers for a surf heat (who had obviously seen sense and stayed in bed) had ensured that it was a three-man affair – with two going through and one getting knocked out. This meant that, once I'd come third of three, I could lay claim merely twenty minutes into this year's Welsh National Surfing Championships to not only being one of a group of first-round bombers, but the first first-round bomber. A pioneer. A failure among failures! Of all the hundreds of people heading to Freshwater West that weekend to compete in the various categories on offer, I was, for the time it took to run heat two at least, the only person so far to have been eliminated from the event. My involvement in a three-day tournament had been so brief that I could have turned around, driven straight home and been back in the living room before Saturday Kitchen had even begun on the TV.

  It was time to take stock of my life as a surfer in Britain, and to face some home truths.

  In the past few years I'd loved surfing. No change there – as always, it was my reason for everything – but there had been one unfortunate caveat that was now coming back to bite me. I loved surfing everywhere but the UK. The act of riding a wave was becoming perhaps too synonymous for me with foreign travel. Great if you're away on trips all the time, but sooner or later that kind of hedonism catches up with you – and you get hooked on an unsustainable regime of wild, sun-beaten beaches, remote waves and no commitments. The trouble now was that this overindulgence in exotic surf-chasing had left me low on funds for a while and bereft of the passion needed to do anything useful as a surfer back home.

  I'd often wondered why someone concerned only with that quest for adventure hadn't just emigrated – but things would never be that simple and I knew it. No journey would be a journey, if you catch my drift, if it didn't involve returning to a home of some kind, and for a while now I'd been trying to make more of being a surfer in Wales – or rather in Britain. I'd become too much of a snob, though, and it was getting harder to figure out how to turn it around.

  However, there was one thing I could now be sure of: if I was going to get something out of my life as a British surfer then here at the Welsh Nationals I was surely barking up the wrong tree. As a kid I used to love packing for the long May bank holiday weekend in Pembroke, and always considered my own involvement in the contest second in importance to being present at the biggest celebration of national surfing that I knew of. Until the travel bug had got a hold of me. Now it felt like a pointless routine that I went through merely to keep myself on the map – to keep my name on the heat sheet.

  And this year I'd barely even managed that.

  By the time I'd found my car keys again (in the coat pocket of someone at contest control), turned my competitor's jersey back in to the beach marshal and read the hard copy of the result just for myself, that second wave of shame had started to come over me. However, it is often at these moments – and you'll know what I mean if you've ever competed in something serious – that you suddenly find an honesty and self-reflection that is rarely part of your thought processes.

  'Surfers in heat three, get ready. Your paddle-out time starts in two minutes.' The announcer's voice over the speakers dulled my internal voice, but only for a moment.

  This attitude and planned nonchalance towards coming here, I realised, was merely a safety mechanism. If I had a nightmare at the Welsh then it didn't m
atter because I could pretend not to care for the event and its waves anyway. (There was a hint of self-denial in this, given the fact it was usually held in surf that was easily as challenging as the stuff you'd ride abroad. Storm conditions appeared the norm at Freshwater West in May.)

  The speaker, only a few yards from where I'd parked, jolted my senses again. 'Heat four, you should also be getting ready. Looks like the rain will be back by the time you get changed, too. Rather you than me!' Ah, the wit of surf-contest announcers.

  Safety mechanism. That sounded like a big idea in a freezing, washed-out car park at nine in the morning when you've already been awake for nearly four hours. But it was true – and not only of the Welsh Nationals. I'd been harbouring an unfair cynicism for everything about surfing in Britain for a while now. This was a trick I kept playing on myself – the moaning and feeling constantly underwhelmed – and it was holding me back. Perhaps I'd been doing it to try and justify that wanderlust to go away again but, even so, it was time to can that nonsense for good. I needed to get out and about a bit more. At home, though; it was time to get to know my own backyard. It made perfect sense. Something was changing in me, for the better.

  Now, it may have been my mood, my thoughts or it may have been luck (or, God knows, even fate), but little did I realise that the opportunity to start turning over this new leaf was going to present itself in the very next person I spoke to.

  Usually at this point my routine was to get into the car the moment I was out of my wetsuit and into my layers of clothes again – before firing up the engine and driving away without another word to anyone. (A thoroughly satisfying act – for about thirty seconds before the third wave of shame hit.) Instead, however, through a gap in the drizzle, I found myself walking towards the infamous food and drinks van at the corner of Fresh West's car park – aptly named 'Snack Attack' – for a polystyrene coffee. Sod it, I thought, why not stick around for five before doing a runner.

  In the queue was a friend from home, Elliot, who was in fact the European longboard champ and therefore entirely unfamiliar and unsympathetic with the plight of the first-round bomber. Always prepared and obviously at home here with his thick puffer-jacket, matching sponsor-branded beanie, year-round tan and once dark but permanently sun-tinted locks of curly hair, Elliot looked nothing like the man standing next to him. This man had a winter-white face adorned with expensive angular glasses and was dressed from head to toe in neatly pressed smart-casual office clothing. For once, here was someone who seemed more out of place at the Welsh than me. He looked slightly uneasy, even uptight, as if he'd never even been to a beach, which I learned was quite likely when Elliot introduced him as being from a London-based ad agency.

  'Look at you, hanging out with ad men, ya ponce!' I wanted to say – half out of jealousy and half out of sincerity. But I didn't.

  'Ad agency? What brings you down here?' I asked instead.

  'Carl's down here looking for surfers to be in an ad he's making for the Welsh Tourist Board,' Elliot replied on his behalf.

  'Yeah,' Carl nodded, wincing at the taste of his stewed and overheated tea. 'You keen? There's a free trip involved.'

  'Really?' At this point my ears pricked up.

  'Yeah. To North Wales. Ever been up there?'

  For a moment the cynic in me tried to leap out, but then I saw where this could go.

  'No. But I'm sure there's a first for everything.'

  Carl looked at Elliot, who nodded back.

  'Well, I'll pencil you in then,' he confirmed, reaching into his jacket pocket for a velvet notebook – an accessory that would last about twenty seconds in the rain. 'If you give me your details, I'll get back in touch…'

  It's not often you think something up, only to see it start to happen immediately. This had to be a great sign. It was a starting point and the chance to try and discover the thrill of the journey without needing to get on a plane first. Maybe this could be the catalyst for a new-found love of the little island in the North Atlantic that I'd lived on for nearly thirty years without really learning to appreciate (and maybe even a few of the smaller islands that surround it too).

  Not wanting to get carried away at such an early stage in an idea, mind, it wasn't long before I was back on the road home – but this time with something missing from the usual experience – that sense of hopelessness had gone. So I bombed out in the first round again… big deal. I'd been coming here for over fifteen years anyway – since being barely old enough to put my own wetsuit on – and this time it wasn't just bravado. It wasn't that I wouldn't love to get a result down there one day – it had merely slipped into perspective among other priorities, other ideas. With each mile my life as a British surfer was suddenly regaining purpose.

  I began remembering my other journeys home from the Welsh – and I even smirked at the times I'd sped, utterly dejected, along this stretch of road. Not since the Under 20s category nearly a decade ago had this journey been made with any silverware in hand. But did that really matter? Friends used to joke about the Nationals, bombarding me with such witticisms as, 'Off to the Welsh tomorrow, eh? I'll see you back home at lunchtime then!'

  I wondered what positive side effects a firm plan to start wandering the British Isles might have on my surfing – perhaps it was the missing ingredient for this kind of event anyway. All about the way you approach something. The guys who did well on these weekends in the cold all loved what they were doing – that was key. They were stoked on British surfing, subscribers to every aspect of it – faithful for better or for worse.

  In the not-too-distant future, I vowed, that would be me. I would return here one day, ready to enjoy the experience again. And to rediscover this stoke I'd go wherever I needed in the British Isles. This journey could begin in a few weeks' time, by meeting Carl and Elliot in North Wales.

  It didn't take long to realise how much fun this might turn out to be. Something you can't avoid when you decide to get out and about along Britain's coasts is the sheer unpredictability of the people you'll meet and the situations you'll end up in – and this was going to be no exception. You take it for granted abroad, but there's something special about getting out of your comfort zone and discovering the thrill of the road in your own country.

  Two weeks later, as the first small stage of a bigger plan was coming together, I was on the phone to Carl and getting the brief. It was sounding interesting already…

  'We'll meet you in the B & B in Pwllelli tomorrow night. The other surfers are all going to be there too. Get some sleep when you arrive, OK? We need to get to Hell's Mouth early the next morning. The director's bringing the sheep up overnight.'

  'You what?' Had I just heard him right?

  'The sheep,' Carl repeated. 'Your co-stars. The producer's fetching them overnight. You'll see what I mean when you get there. Hwyl fawr.'

  And the phone clunked dead.

  My journey through Britain and Ireland's surf cultures was getting underway with the 'North Wales Wild Sheep Chase'. A fittingly unpredictable start…

  CHAPTER 1

  A NORTH WALES WILD SHEEP CHASE

  'Bendigedig!'

  Surely of all the weird and wonderful words thrown up by my supposedly native tongue, this has to be my favourite. It means 'wonderful', and sounds, well… wonderful – especially when you hear it in a North Walian, or 'Gog' accent. As if Welsh wasn't already a supremely challenging language to learn, it becomes utterly indecipherable all over again when spoken by the Gogs. Except for that one word, which had just been said through a big smile by the old lady in Pwllelli who ran the B & B Carl had put me and my three other travel partners up in.

  For me it represented a double whammy of stoke. Not only was it the first word I'd recognised since arriving in the Gog, but it was also her response to being told that tomorrow morning we planned to go surfing at first light. This statement could often be greeted with a look of disdain in many other parts of the UK, but here it seemed fine. Breakfast could be ready whene
ver we wanted, she explained, it made no difference to her.

  'Aha – bendigedig,' I grinned back, feeling pleased with myself, at last only a yawn away from a comfortable bed.

  After one of the most gruelling drives in living memory, we had arrived somewhere.

  You may wonder, from looking at a map of the British Isles – home of the smooth motorway and careful driver – why a distance as comparatively short as South to North Wales could take so long to drive. It does, though, I can assure you. It takes an absolute age.