‘I lose all sense of time in the hypnotic flow’: five writers on their favourite British rivers

Ahead, the scene unfolds like a postcard from a bygone era, yet bustling with contemporary life. Whitby’s famous abbey, a dramatic ruin perched atop the East Cliff, dominates the skyline, a silent sentinel overlooking the town’s vibrant marina and the protective arms of the West and East piers. The cobbled streets below teem with visitors, drawn by the promise of golden fish and chips, nostalgic amusement arcades, and the enduring legends of Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Captain Cook’s seafaring exploits. Indeed, Whitby’s allure is multifaceted, from its literary gothic connections to its rich maritime heritage. Later in the year, the town transforms again for the Whitby Goth Weekend, where elaborately costumed figures parade through its ancient lanes, adding another layer to its unique cultural tapestry.

Yet, here on the river, a profound tranquility reigns. The water’s surface mirrors the sky, broken only by the occasional ripple. To my right, a salmon, a symbol of the Esk’s relatively clean waters and its journey from the upper reaches, leaps with an almost balletic grace. Beneath my board, seaweed sways gently, releasing tiny bubbles that rise to the surface, hinting at the hidden life below. To my left, the riverbank speaks of forgotten stories, with abandoned boats slowly surrendering to the embrace of grassy knolls. The Esk is also a hub for local watersports; on an evening paddle, one might spot the dedicated crews from Whitby’s three main rowing clubs – Whitby Coastal, Friendship, or Fisherlads – their synchronized strokes a testament to the town’s enduring connection to the water. The river, particularly in its upper reaches, is known for its Atlantic salmon and sea trout populations, making it an important ecological corridor and a focus for conservation efforts, ensuring its unique status is maintained.

Accessing this peaceful haven is straightforward. A convenient slipway at the far end of the marina back car park, near Coates Marine, serves as an ideal launch point. For those arriving by public transport, the train and bus stations are just a few minutes’ walk away. The optimal time to launch is approximately one and a half hours before high tide, allowing for a paddle towards the New Bridge and Ruswarp. However, vigilance is key, as this section of the river is tidal, and water levels can drop significantly, requiring careful navigation.

After soaking in the magnificent panoramic view of Whitby from the river, I turn my board inland, paddling towards Ruswarp, a charming village a couple of miles upstream. The journey takes me beneath the impressive Larpool Viaduct, a Victorian engineering marvel that now carries the 22-mile Cinder Track, a popular route for walkers, cyclists, and horse riders following the old railway line between Whitby and Scarborough. Along the banks, branches of willow trees droop elegantly, their soft foliage creating natural arches and offering welcome shade from the sun. Swans glide past with an air of regal indifference, while Highland cattle graze nonchalantly in verdant fields, their shaggy forms adding to the pastoral idyll. A couple hikes the well-worn path that runs alongside the river, their footsteps echoing the countless journeys made along these banks.

My connection to the Esk runs deep; I first paddled here with my young sons in 2006. Two decades later, it remains a peaceful, somewhat hidden gem, a testament to its timeless charm. Back then, we hired kayaks from Ruswarp Pleasure Boats, a venerable establishment founded in 1874, situated just above the weir. Today, they also rent paddleboards and offer a private jetty for a modest £5 fee, ideal for launching personal craft given the limited public access along this stretch. Free roadside parking is available, and the nearby Arriva number 95 bus stop provides a public transport option. From here, one can paddle upstream to Perry’s Plants garden centre at Briggswath, just before Sleights, before turning back.

The journey offers more than just scenic beauty. Along the way, you’ll pass The Waterside restaurant, a perfect spot for a riverside meal, and Whitby Wellbeing’s wild sauna, where friends and family can unwind, sweat, or take a bracing dip while you float along, allowing the river to carry your worries away. Afterwards, a visit to Botham’s in Sleights for their renowned Resolution tea and delectable iced lemon buns provides a perfect culinary conclusion. I promise, a day spent on the Esk will be a truly grand paddleboarding adventure in Yorkshire. This blend of natural beauty, historical resonance, and accessible recreation makes the River Esk an unforgettable destination for water enthusiasts and casual visitors alike, truly embodying the spirit of North Yorkshire.

Wild camping on the Dart in Devon

The River Dart, a jewel of Devon, begins its remarkable journey high on the uplands of Dartmoor, a landscape of raw, untamed beauty. Here, two ancient tributaries, the East Dart and West Dart, converge beneath a canopy of ancient woodland at the aptly named hamlet of Dartmeet. From this symbolic confluence, the River Dart flows for 47 miles, carving a path through open moorland, steep wooded valleys, past peat bogs and dramatic tors, through ancient oak forests, bustling market towns, and rolling pastures, before finally emptying into the sheltered waters of the south Devon coast. Its very name is thought to derive from an old Celtic word, "derva" or "deru," meaning "river where oak trees grow," a testament to the venerable woodlands that still line its lower banks, thick with mosses and ferns, remnants of ancient temperate rainforests.

The Dartmoor National Park, though one of Britain’s smaller protected landscapes, feels remarkably untamed, a wilderness that is increasingly rare in southern England. Its upper reaches retain a pristine wildness, characterized by some of the cleanest bodies of water in the country. These crystal-clear currents are a sanctuary for native wildlife, including robust populations of salmon, sea trout, and otters – the latter serving as a crucial indicator of the river’s ecological health. Dartmoor itself is a place of profound geological and historical significance, its distinctive granite tors and vast expanses of moorland criss-crossed by prehistoric settlements and ancient trackways. This ethereal landscape, often shrouded in rolling mists, offers miles of open moorland and twisting woodlands where it is surprisingly easy to lose oneself, fostering a deep sense of connection with nature.

It is this profound sense of freedom and untamed spirit that continually draws me back to the Dart. There is an unparalleled joy in stuffing a lightweight tent into my rucksack and embarking on a multi-day hike, following the serpentine course of the Dart and its intricate web of streams and creeks. My quest is always for a quiet bend or a secluded grassy bank where I can set up camp for the night. Falling asleep to the steady rush and rumble of the water is a unique lullaby, and waking early for a refreshing swim in one of its deep, crystal-clear pools is a ritual that invigorates the soul before packing up and continuing the journey.

This ability to roam and camp freely is largely thanks to Dartmoor being the only place in England where wild camping is legally permitted, albeit with specific guidelines. Within the national park, "backpack" or wild camping is allowed for one or two nights in designated areas, provided campers adhere strictly to the "leave no trace" principles, staying away from roads and settlements, and ensuring no impact on the environment. This right, a hard-won victory for outdoor enthusiasts, was recently reaffirmed after legal challenges, highlighting the importance of balancing public access with conservation. This unique allowance on Dartmoor fosters a deep respect for the land and encourages a minimalist approach to outdoor living.

Sometimes, the riverbanks offer unexpected company. I’ve huddled in bivouac bags with friends, waking to find ourselves covered in a sparkling tapestry of dew droplets. I’ve camped at the water’s edge and been startled awake in the dead of night by what sounded like an invading army around my tent, only to discover it was a troop of scouts, arriving spectacularly late at their campsite and gamely pitching flimsy-looking tents by the flickering light of their headlamps. And on one memorable dusk, I believe I glimpsed the sleek, elusive head of an otter slipping silently into the current, a fleeting moment of wild magic. More often than not, however, as evening falls and I sit by the door of my tent, watching the water darken and the stars emerge, I have the Dart all to myself. This solitude, combined with the raw beauty and the rare legal freedom to wild camp, makes the River Dart an extraordinary destination for those seeking true immersion in Britain’s wild heart. Conservation organizations such as the Dartmoor National Park Authority and local wildlife trusts actively work to protect this delicate ecosystem, ensuring its continued health for both wildlife and human enjoyment.

Fishing on the Dove in the Peak District

The River Dove, winding its way through the picturesque Beresford Dale on the border of Staffordshire and Derbyshire, is more than just a waterway; it is a sacred pilgrimage site for fly-fishing enthusiasts and a cradle of English literary heritage. As I stand on its bank, a trout rises upstream, its ripple a fleeting target just beyond an overhanging tree branch. The challenge is immediate: how to cast a fly without snagging, without disturbing the elusive quarry. The steep drop to the water and the apparent depth of the pools in this stretch make wading a cautious proposition, deep enough to test the limits of chest waders. I consider wading upstream from a safer entry point, but the thought of a long, splashy trek disturbing any fish quickly deters me. This internal debate, a recurring pattern of indecision and tactical reconsideration, is part of the allure of fly-fishing – a constant engagement with the river’s nuances.

Eventually, I retreat to a small peninsula formed by the river’s meander, where a remarkable structure stands: a fishing hut, but not just any hut. This is a substantial stone edifice, adorned with pillars framing its doorway, bearing the Latin inscription, "Piscatoribus Sacrum" (Sacred to all Fishermen). Above the lintel, a cypher of intertwined letters – CC and IW – tells a story of enduring friendship and literary legacy: Charles Cotton, the poet who built this "little fishing house" on his estate in 1674, and Izaak Walton, the author of The Compleat Angler, published in 1653. Cotton’s later addition of "Instructions how to angle for a trout or grayling in a clear stream" to the fifth edition of Walton’s seminal work solidified its status as the first technical manual of fly-fishing and one of the most reprinted books in the English language, a testament to its profound impact on angling culture and nature writing.

The River Dove, therefore, holds a mythical and spiritual place in the minds of fishers, largely due to Walton and Cotton’s association. Growing up on the Staffordshire-Derbyshire border, and having fished the Dove where it merges with the River Trent at Newton Solney in my youth, I was inherently aware of its special status. Though I bypassed the 17th-century treatise in my youth, an English teacher, himself an angler, distilled its essence into a single, memorable line: "you will find it one of the purest crystalline streams you have seen." This description remains remarkably apt for sections of the Dove, particularly in its upper reaches within the Peak District National Park, where the limestone geology acts as a natural filter, contributing to its renowned clarity.

The stretch I am fishing, known as the Temple beat after Cotton’s fishing house, exemplifies this purity. It races and tumbles through a narrow, tree-lined dale, hemmed in by dramatic limestone crags, creating a series of riffles, pools, and runs perfect for trout. Near a bridge above a section known as the Pike Pool, the early summer sunshine brings families splashing and paddling, enjoying the refreshing water. A popular 4-mile loop walk from Hartington village attracts numerous hikers, making fishing challenging in busier areas. Consequently, I enter the river at the bridge, choosing to wade and fish "the vale it winds through like a snake," a poetic description that perfectly captures its meandering course. This allows for a more intimate engagement with the river, away from the throngs of walkers, until the sighting of the rising trout prompts my coffee break.

Later that day, immersed in the rhythmic flow of casting and drifting, I lose all sense of time. The hypnotic dance of catching and releasing a series of small, wild brown trout becomes a meditation. Just beyond the fishing house, a large hole carved into the base of a dead oak tree provides a perfect, natural seat from which to observe the river’s vibrant ecosystem. Dippers, with their characteristic bobbing motion, skit along the banks, while delicate damselflies dance upon the water’s surface, their iridescent wings catching the light. A little further on, a magnificent Hereford cow drinks placidly from the river, framed by overhanging trees and with a verdant conical hill in the background. The scene, tranquil and timeless, strikes me as a pastoral masterpiece, echoing the idyllic descriptions found within The Compleat Angler. The river’s health, though generally good in this area, is a constant concern for conservationists across the UK, making its relative purity here all the more precious. Organizations like the Wild Trout Trust work to protect these fragile ecosystems. A day ticket on the Temple beat can be booked through Fishing Breaks from £65, offering a chance to step into a living piece of angling history.

Canoeing the Tay in Perthshire

The River Tay, Scotland’s longest river stretching 117 miles, is also Britain’s mightiest, discharging a greater volume of water than the combined flows of the longer Thames and Severn. Rising dramatically on the rugged slopes of Ben Lui in Argyll, it gathers immense strength from countless Highland burns before broadening and sweeping majestically through the historic landscapes of Perthshire, eventually reaching the North Sea at Dundee. The Tay is a river of immense ecological and historical significance, renowned worldwide as one of Scotland’s premier salmon rivers, its powerful currents supporting a rich array of wildlife and a thriving fishing industry. Hydroelectric schemes harness its power, but careful management ensures its natural beauty and ecological integrity are largely preserved.

It is the middle stretch of the Tay, from the charming village of Killin to the picturesque town of Dunkeld, through the heart of Highland Perthshire, that holds a special place in my heart. Killin, nestled at the western end of Loch Tay, has been a family haunt where we’ve happily lost whole afternoons to the simple pleasures of picking wild raspberries, skimming stones across the water, and climbing ancient trees. It was here that my boys, with their much shorter legs, conquered their first Munro, Ben Lawers, a magnificent peak that, despite being shrouded in cloud at its summit, provided an unforgettable sense of achievement. Further along the banks at Lawers and Kenmore, my sisters and I have found restorative escapes, where the exhilarating chill of loch swims is perfectly complemented by the warmth of a hot tub – our preferred form of therapy.

Though I have often walked by the river, I harbored a growing curiosity to experience it from a different perspective: by canoe. So, on an early start, my 15-year-old son, Louis, and I made the two-hour drive north from Edinburgh to Aberfeldy. We were warmly welcomed at Beyond Adventure with steaming coffee and a comprehensive safety briefing, then transferred upriver with two long orange canoes and our expert instructor, Kevin Meldrum.

Our journey began on the River Lyon, just before its confluence with the Tay. In this calm, sheltered eddy, we received a quick but thorough lesson in the fundamentals of paddling and turning the boat. Louis, with his imposing 6ft-plus stature, and my own more modest height, initially seemed a recipe for paddling in circles. However, Kevin’s patient guidance kept us on course, and Louis quickly learned to calmly counteract any erratic paddling on my side, finding a harmonious rhythm. We soon met the Tay over a gentle rapid, feeling the surge of its powerful current as we began our downstream paddle. As we settled into the river’s rhythm, we learned to read the currents, steering deftly around camouflaged anglers patiently waiting for salmon, their silent vigil a stark contrast to our gentle progress. We also spotted majestic herons standing guard in the shadows along the banks, their long legs poised for a strike.

The landscape along the Tay’s banks is in a constant state of subtle transformation, thanks to the remarkable return of the beaver population to Scotland. Though we didn’t spot any of these nocturnal architects (they typically emerge at dusk), we saw compelling evidence of their industrious work: stripped bark on trees and expertly felled timber along the riverbank. Paddling into a tranquil, tree-lined eddy, we admired a carefully constructed beaver lodge, a testament to their engineering prowess and their vital role as ecosystem engineers, creating new habitats and enhancing biodiversity.

We eventually pulled our canoes ashore on a small, secluded island for a picnic lunch. As we savored our sandwiches amidst the tranquil sounds of the river, a sudden flash of iridescent turquoise zipped past – my first ever sighting of a kingfisher, a moment of pure, unexpected magic that perfectly capped the experience. It was immensely reassuring to be on the water with a knowledgeable guide like Kevin, who knew the river intimately. At each stretch of rapids, he expertly set our route, and we navigated each one facing downstream, still smiling, a testament to the thrill and safety of the guided experience.

As we approached Aberfeldy, signaling the end of our journey, we paddled gracefully under General Wade’s Bridge, an impressive stone arch structure that has stood unchanged since its construction in 1733, a tangible link to Scotland’s military history and infrastructure development. We had been on the water for three hours, yet the time seemed to have flown by all too quickly as we approached the Beyond Adventure base. Reluctant to leave the embrace of the river, we found a deep, peaty pool for a final, invigorating swim.

Heading home, a stop for a well-deserved pizza (a teenage second lunch) and cold drinks at The Taybank in Dunkeld was in order. Watching the Tay flow past the beer garden, I realized the river now looked different to me. Once you’ve traveled with it, intimately connected with its currents and its secrets, it’s hard not to wonder what’s waiting around the next bend, what new discoveries and adventures it holds. Beyond Adventure offers half-day discovery canoeing tours from £63 for adults, £47.25 for children, and £199.50 for a family (two adults, two children), providing an accessible way to explore this magnificent Scottish waterway.