‘Hop in, Jamie,’ says Oliver, holding the canoe steady in the shallows, its bottom scraping on the shingle beach.
The lad dithers and bites his lip.
Sebastian, already settled in the bow, holds aloft a paddle in preparation for the adventure ahead. In an irritated voice, he says, ‘Oh, come on, Jamie, get in!’
Jamie takes a tentative step towards the red canoe.
‘That’s it. Climb aboard,’ encourages Oliver.
Grabbing hold of the side, the boy hesitantly lifts a leg over and scrambles frantically to the safety of the middle seat.
Oliver pushes the canoe out and climbs in. The idyllic and sheltered tidal inlet of Gillan Creek is a good place to start Jamie’s boating education. Having checked the times of the rising tide, he woke the boys early – three hours before high tide. All is peaceful. There’s no one about. Allowing the canoe to drift further out from the beach, Oliver is careful not to get caught in the current that would take them out around Nare Point and into the Atlantic. He imagines rounding the headland could prove quite challenging in rougher weather, with nothing between this coast and America. As a wind blows in from across the bay, whipping the surface into little waves, small breakers hit the jagged coastline and the canoe starts to rock. In sharp contrast to Jamie’s frozen face, Sebastian sports a grin as he looks eagerly ahead.
‘OK, Seb, take it away,’ says Oliver, dipping his paddle into the water and matching his second son’s confident strokes.
How unfair it is to Jamie his brother harbours none of his insecurities.
Holding his breath, Jamie sits bolt upright and his knuckles turn white as they grip the seat beneath him. His life jacket feels bulky and doesn’t offer him any sense of security.
Oliver concentrates on keeping the canoe steady and turns into the shelter of the creek as soon as he can. Once they leave behind the threat of the Atlantic, the surface of the water turns to glass and Jamie visibly relaxes. As the canoe glides across the mirror-like river, the sea mist starts to lift and the boy becomes aware of his surroundings.
A small variety of boats and pleasure craft are moored in the central channel. Oliver keeps close to the shoreline. Silently, they pass the twelfth-century village of St Anthony-in-Meneage with its Norman church and, unknown to them, the causeway beneath the water that can be walked across at low tide. Two swans swim out from a tranquil, shingle beach to inspect the red canoe as it paddles by and, on the opposite bank, four snow-white egrets balance effortlessly on a fallen tree trunk protruding into the water. Earlier in the week, Oliver read that with nearly thirty miles of shoreline providing an enormous variety of habitats, the whole of the Helford Estuary was recently designated as a Special Area of Conservation. He can see why.
On both sides of the creek, meadows reaching down to the gentle shoreline dip their toes in the river. A handful of exclusive properties nestle amongst the wooded and picturesque, unspoilt scenery; their chimneys and roofs, and an occasional tantalising glimpse of an immaculate garden, appear through the trees. As the canoe approaches the head of the creek, an idyllically set, pristine white cottage comes into view. Alongside its level gardens a small motorboat is secured on a tidal mooring.
‘Paddles up,’ Oliver calls to Sebastian. As the lad raises his paddle out of the water, the canoe slows.
‘Listen,’ says Oliver.
There’s not a sound to be heard.
‘It’s so quiet,’ says Sebastian in a loud voice.
Jamie turns to his dad and rolls his eyes.
‘The Helford and the Fal are drowned river valleys,’ says Oliver to his sons, ‘and they provide wonderful boating and sailing. In time, I hope we’ll be able to indulge in both those activities.’
‘Fantastic!’ Sebastian says, turning enthusiastically in his seat and rocking the canoe.
‘Seb, don’t!’ shouts Jamie, turning pale and grabbing the side.
‘Wuss,’ Sebastian retorts.
‘OK, boys, settle down,’ says Oliver. ‘The Helford offers endless opportunities on the water. We can explore quiet creeks, small sheltered coves and beaches by boat. There’s lots of wildlife to spot as well. Apparently, pods of dolphins have been seen in the river, and also deer swimming across from one side to the other.’
‘No way!’ exclaims Sebastian.
‘I’d like to see them,’ says Jamie quietly.
‘And when we walk the cliffs,’ continues Oliver, ‘we must keep an eye out for the chough. It’s the emblem of Cornwall.’
With sudden yearning, he recalls Cara telling him how one of England’s rarest breeding birds recently returned to the Cornish cliffs. At the time, she was showing him a highly guarded location only ornithologists and a few locals knew of. It was on this occasion he realised he could no longer deny his feelings for her.
‘Look, Dad,’ says Jamie excitedly. ‘Is that a kingfisher?’
Oliver looks in the direction of Jamie’s pointed finger. A flash of blue travelling at speed flies low over the water.
‘Well spotted, Jamie.’
Sebastian pulls a face.
All is silent again, and the river glistens in the morning sun.
‘Jamie, take the paddle from Sebastian,’ Oliver says. Panic sweeps across his son’s face. ‘It’s OK. The water’s calm and this is the perfect opportunity for you to practise. I won’t let anything happen.’
Jamie nervously bites his lip.
‘Sebastian, pass Jamie the paddle,’ Oliver instructs.
Reluctantly, Sebastian hands over the paddle to his brother.
‘OK. Now, hold the top of the paddle with one hand and place the other halfway down, like this.’ Oliver demonstrates to his son. ‘Concentrate on keeping your forward strokes as close to the craft as possible without scraping the hull.’
Holding the paddle as his dad has demonstrated, Jamie dips it tentatively into the water.
‘That’s it. Away we go,’ Oliver encourages from the stern, paddling the canoe and propelling it smoothly forwards.
It’s not long before Jamie relaxes into a rhythm. As the sun rises in the sky and the sea mist lifts further, the creek’s surroundings come into sharper focus. Turning to look at his dad, Jamie breaks into a grin.
‘Good fun, isn’t it?’ Oliver says with a smile.
The boy nods enthusiastically. Suddenly the silence is broken by a harsh croaking sound and Jamie immediately stops paddling. ‘What’s that?’ he asks, anxiously looking around.
‘Not sure,’ says Oliver, looking in the direction of the noise. Through the trees, a man and two dogs walk along a path hugging the creek.
A harsh ‘kaark’ sounds across the water again.
‘Is it a weird sort of dog?’ Jamie asks, his eyes huge.
‘I doubt it,’ says Oliver.
‘Look,’ says Sebastian, pointing to the shoreline. ‘It’s that bird!’
At the water’s edge a heron stands on a tree stump. Its distinguishing black crest, long, yellow legs and beak, and grey and white feathers stand out starkly against the dark foliage of the riverbank. Disturbed by the dogs on the path above, the bird turns its long neck and looks further along the shoreline. A few yards along the creek, two more herons stand stock-still in the shallows, patiently waiting to spear any prey with their dagger-like bills.
‘Herons,’ says Oliver. ‘Do you see them, Jamie?’
‘Yes, I can see them,’ the boy says, breathless with excitement. ‘We’re paddling with herons!’
Oliver smiles at his son’s uncharacteristic, but welcome, animation. Maybe, if he introduces him to new experiences each time they come to Cornwall the boy’s fears and anxieties will have less of a hold. ‘Now you’re getting the hang of handling a canoe, Jamie, we can do this every day if you want.’
His son nods, a smile splitting his face. The cautious, hesitant boy is slowly disappearing. Oliver checks his watch and is surprised to see they’ve been out on the river for a couple of hours. Not only must he keep an eye on the tide but also he has an appointment with the architect to discuss developing the derelict cottages. ‘Time to head back and leave the herons in peace.’
Sebastian turns in his seat and stretches out his hand. ‘Gimme, Jamie. It’s my turn.’
Jamie holds on tightly to the paddle.
‘Come on, it’s only fair.’
‘Jamie can paddle as far as Gillan Harbour,’ says Oliver diplomatically, ‘and then you take over for the last stretch, Seb.’