In the rush to paddle in increasingly exotic locations, sometimes the British classics can be easily overlooked.
The levels weren't amazing today. It would have been very easy to stay in bed when my alarm woke me up at some disgusting time, but I didn't. Against my own better judgement, I dragged my snotty, cold-ridden body out of bed and got ready for boating. Four slices of burnt toast, 10 minutes wafting the fire alarm and one squashed slug later (long story), I was out of the door and on my way to Dartmoor.
What I didn't know when I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed, was that the day ahead would offer one of the best days of paddling that I had ever experienced. No it wasn't Scotland, the Alps, Chile or Norway, it was the Upper Dart at a modest level. I didn't push my limits and I didn't get an adrenaline rush, but I did get out on a beautiful river with a quality group of mates. I paddled, I smiled and I laughed.
Sorry if I have gone a little mushy! All I'm trying to say is that next time I am lying in bed checking the levels at some disgusting time, I will ignore my better judgement with vigour. After all, who wouldn't be stoked if the day ahead could offer one of the best days of paddling that they had ever experienced?