Canoeing down the Grand Canal
In 2019, Gwen Wilkinson set herself the challenge of building a canoe and paddling it the length of Ireland, along a network of inland waterways. She 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. Gwen’s journey is the focus of an extensive piece to be broadcast on RTE.
By Gwen Wilkinson
The canoe sits low in the water. It is packed to the gunnels with camping gear and several days' worth of provisions. Fresh drinking water is part of the heavy cargo, as clean sources are unreliable along this stretch of waterway. The extra ballast makes for heavier paddling, but I prefer the stability it gives the canoe.
The towpath is busy with weekend joggers, walkers and children who want to say hello. I enjoy their innocent curiosity and happily answer their list of questions. Where are you going? To the River Shannon. What sort of boat is that? It’s a canoe. Are you on your own? Yes. Do you get scared? Yes. A fleet of kayakers streaks past, members of a local paddling club engrossed in a punishing workout, the face of each paddler contorted in pain. I can smile smugly now, but in a few days, my own muscles will be feeling the burn. The persistent whine of the Mondello race-car track stalks me for the best part of an hour, and I paddle on quickly to escape the annoying sound. I encounter a VW Golf that has nosedived into the canal. The doors are all underwater and are still closed; any passengers must have escaped through the shattered rear window.
At the first whiff of turf smoke, I know I have passed into another realm. The unmistakable smell is so sweetly aromatic that as it fades away I crave for more. At last I settle into a rhythmic paddle, travelling steadily through a quiet landscape along the deserted canal. The black-and-white gates of Ticknevin lock are visible in the distance. After a tricky portage I set out on the canal’s lower level and a long stretch of lock-free water, arriving at Edenderry just in time for lunch.
At Edenderry harbour the quay is thronged with well-wishers of the avian kind ‒ Barbary and mallard ducks. Skirmishes break out over crumbs and crusts, the discarded remains of my late lunch. The day is muggy and close as I return along a short canal spur that links Edenderry town to the main Grand Canal line. Milfoil grows thick and rampant in the shallow waterway.
A towpath that runs parallel to our course has been freshly paved with tarmac, and is host to a steady stream of cyclists, joggers and pedestrians. Progress is staccato and slow because I get increasingly tangled up in weed or lured into conversation by curious passersby. By the time I reach the canal junction, I am feeling hot and bothered and pull in beneath the shade of a humpbacked roving bridge, wrestling off layers of clothing and gulping from a water bottle. Passing beneath the ancient horse portal, I rejoin the Grand Canal and follow the shimmering corridor into an Elysian world.
The rumble of motorway traffic subsides, cyclists run out of hard surface and turn back, joggers and dog walkers dwindle. Liberated from such early distractions, my senses grow attuned to this watery domain. I am now in the company of kingfishers, blackbirds, coots, thrushes, wrens, moorhens and herons. The clear water teems with fish; perch and pike streak ahead as Minnow cleaves a passage. Damselflies gather on the bow, hitching a lift downstream to fresh hunting ground.
The Bog of Allen is a catch-all name for a series of raised bogs concentrated in a band across the Irish Midlands, and the Grand Canal cuts right through its heart. It is a landscape that is easily overlooked. There is not the high drama of mountain ranges or the majestic sweep of rolling plains. It is a low, scrubby place with boundaries that are difficult to define, and is frequently dismissed as wasteland drab, poor and monotonous.
The soft substrata yields to weight and refuses to cooperate when any form of construction is attempted on its surface; roads pucker, rail tracks twist, buildings subside and canal banks crumble. Bogs were places to be feared and distrusted. They are tricky places to navigate, and many attempts have proven fatal.
*This is an extract from Chapter 6 Grand Canal - Waterlogged from The Waters and the Wild by Gwen Wilkinson, published by Merrion Press. RRP: €16.99.