Chalky pale cliffs overlook a grey flint and pebble beach. Ahead, you squint in the summer heat at a 19th century fort balancing precipitously on the edge of a headland. You turn towards the series of caves set within the recesses of a wind-battered coastline where the seawater washes up into their yawning mouths. The beach, self contained beneath the chalky scarps, curves into an arc where people sunbathe on the steep embankment. These features mark the natural beauty of Freshwater Bay on the Isle of Wight’s far western coast. A favourite haunt for kayakers and paddleboarders, the Bay has much to offer for locals and tourists seeking a picturesque retreat. So on a sunny day in June, arms and shoulders caked in sunscreen, I packed my kayak and headed for Freshwater Bay, dispatching the boat near the dropoff.
I mean literally “drop-off” as the beach instantly drops into deep water and as I embarked, the turgid surf, throthing white foam like some mad living thing battered me and my boat, wielding it as a battering ram against my chest and shins. Eventually, I hurled myself head and shoulders first into the kayak and frantically paddled until I was off the shore and out onto the sea proper. I scooped out handfuls of water that had come aboard in the struggle, took a breath and studied the horizon, hand over my eyes as the sun beat down. I could see the silvery swells of oncoming waves. It was a little rough and I heard the roar of it against the distant bluffs. I thought it would get better the further out I paddled. I was wrong.
Wanting to explore the bay and beyond, my vessel sidelong with the waves made for an uneasy traverse. I steered furiously — I needed to stay headlong so as not to capsize. The views of the Island’s exposed cliffline, were a sight for (rather salty) sore eyes, from the rising escarpment of Tennyson Down in the East to the distant St Catherine’s promontory in the far south. I could see the white weathered slopes of chalk here, muddy brown sandstone farther south. These colourings mark a rich tapestry of geological wonders, carved and embossed over millennia, a victim to the unyielding march of erosion that characterises the Island’s receding coast, shaping its towering stacks and hidden coastal bays. I dared to paddle inland a little where the caves on the Bay’s east parameter are historically rumoured to have housed smugglers. They lie in the shadow of a hulking sea stack — a column of chalk that the seabirds lay claim to on its grassy plateau.
Because the waves here roll aggressively over the shelf of stone that exposes rock pools at low tide, I decided not to get too close, risking a violent end to the surly waves sure to dash me, kayak and all against the cliffs should I make the approach. The sun in my face, I braced the water and headed back out, risking some distance from the shore. I glanced up, the sun at once engulfed in thick buttresses of cloud. I shivered, sea salt sticking to my arms. I peer at the headland with Fort Redoubt perched on top. Below, a chain of knife-like rocks lurk just above the waterline as white heads roll over them — a minefield for passing boats. Then deep in the cliff, I noticed stairs, weathered and dark with age, leading up to a door beneath the fort and set within the stonework of the cliff. As I risked my phone’s safety, I took some quick shots before heading back to shore.
It was there when once again the danger hit, as I pulled into shore, the angry surf kicked the boat at me as I disembarked, it battered me, threatening to pull me beneath the hull. Gasping for breath and a little bruised, I pulled myself and the kayak onto the sun baked stones of the upper beach and slumped on the concrete wall above, watching the waves come in, blue of the channel colliding with the turquoise of the shallows. A great day to kayak.
