In anticipation

Having carefully negotiated the ‘path’ across the waterlogged meadows to the south of Alney Island, we finally arrived at Lower Parting. An empty wooden bench, perfectly positioned on the crest of the riverbank where the river divides into two channels, invited us to the 10:42 performance. Was this really going to be a private viewing? No need to battle through any crowds with over excited children and barking dogs this time. No cattle either (phew). But, goodness, had I got the right time, or even the right day? It was getting ever closer to the predicted time. Bores can even come earlier than predicted – but had we missed it even though we’d arrived 20 minutes early?

As if with no care in the world, the two arms of the river flowed gracefully past us, then merged without even a ripple before continuing downstream to caress the muddy shores of the tree-lined riverbanks beyond. Such a peaceful, rural idyll, with only the occasional long-tailed tit fluttering past and the gentle, distant warbling call of birds, may be skylarks.

Then, an almost eerie stillness and silence before…

The muddy shores as the tip of Lower Parting

The Severn gently flowing downstream before the Bore

Mallard ducks unperturbed by the approaching bore

Mallard ducks taking flight at pace at the fast approaching tidal wave

The bore progressing along the left bank

The show continued. We were suddenly aware of yet another wave meandering its way a little more nonchalantly along the other, inner left bank. This was just like Nennius had described all those centuries ago, although the rams seemed more at peace today than in his description. 

The aftermath

The show was over, or was it?

The riverbanks and reeds were submerged but still the tide remained in control, flowing steadily upstream and carrying flotillas of debris with it. Pleasingly, given the amount of litter I’ve seen on previous walks, there was relatively little plastic amongst these floating forests. However, driftwood in many shapes and sizes, from crocodile and alligator to otter lookalikes, surged past. Later, I found the following extract from a poem by Duncan Forbes which describes the scene so well:

Shipping the driftwood back upstream
With smells of estuary and reeds,
It fills the channel like a reen
And still the water levels rise

(Source)

By now, the river was nearly at ‘bank full stage’ – and the muddy reed beds of the riverbanks were practically submerged. The water had even started to encroach into the woodland along the banks.  In the slightly hazy spring sunshine, it was as if I’d entered the world evoked by Debussy’s impressionistic piano piece Reflets dans l’eau (Reflections in the Water). In and amongst the picturesque reflections, the waters were almost dancing – amazing ripples were forming around bubbling ‘cauldrons’ of water: steady streams of air bubbles were being released, presumably remnants from the bore’s previous disturbance?  

And still the waters kept rising. 

After all, these are flood meadows, flat pastureland that owes its existence to natural fluvial processes. The West Channel which we were walking along was, I understand, formed by a major flood event centuries ago. As we watched the ancient drainage ditches filling up, I remembered the warnings on the information boards nearby – the river continues to rise for well over an hour after the Bore. Time to beat a hasty retreat. Not so easy though. It was getting increasingly difficult to tread across the heavily trampled, pock-marked sea of sticky mud. Then the inevitable – my walking boot became firmly stuck…I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, I’ve still got a broken fingernail from prizing my boot out, but, at least after a 50° wash cycle, my sock has recovered from its mud bath. What could have been a therapeutic, tactile experience of mud walking, became a logistical nightmare, avoiding the many mighty ziggurats of cow dung strewn across the meadow. At least we didn’t encounter the cattle themselves, although I would quite like to have seen (from a distance) some of the traditional Old Gloucester breed whose milk is used to make the famous Single and Double Gloucester cheeses.

Lower Parting immediately after the Bore

A driftwood ‘crocodile’ floating upstream in the now swollen river

Submerged woodland along the river

Bubbling waters on the edges of the submerged woodland

Over Bridge – the elegant stone arches of Telford’s bridge

Haw Bridge

A pair of geese gliding across one of the many pools of the Ashleworth Ham Reserve

Beyond the Bore

I was so relieved to get to the dry, tarmac path that leads you under Over Bridge, from the top of which I later discovered you get a splendid bird’s eye view of the river without having to negotiate either cattle or mud! The bridge, sometimes known as Telford’s Bridge, is quite special. This elegant bridge was the lowest river crossing on the Severn for over a century until the opening of the Severn Bridge in 1966. It’s main claim to fame though is its design – by Thomas Telford of course. It employs a French ‘cornes de vache’ technique; the horn shaped cut outs on the bridge designed to reduce turbulence and increase water flow at times of flood.  

After a quick change of socks and shoes, we warmed up with a hearty lunch at a nearby farm shop café. I was, however, still keen to briefly explore the river up to Haw Bridge, the inland limit of our Severn Estuary Shoreline Management Plan and SEP itself. So, we took a rapid detour by car to sample a few sites upstream before heading home. Haw Bridge itself is somewhat unremarkable, a modern 1960s bridge which replaces a former structure demolished by an empty tanker barge heading downstream. No major disasters on our visit today. By now the river had reverted to flowing downstream and seemed well behaved, even demure, certainly not the ‘naughty adolescent’ as described by Chris Witts. However, despite the somewhat idyllic river scene before us, there was plenty of evidence of previous flooding and high tides – sandbanks piled high along the road in front of the pub, and floating pontoons for the canoeists needing to avoid the steep muddy riverbanks.

Returning towards Maisemore, the normal tidal limit of the Severn, we happened to pass by Ashleworth Ham Reserve, a wonderful wetland which serves as an active floodplain during winter. Although only a remnant of a more extensive wetland landscape, it’s an important bird habitat, with Bewick’s swans and white-fronted geese as regular visitors. On even our brief encounter, we caught a glimpse of various geese, coots, mallards and common pochards.

Upper Parting with the east and west channels of the Severn

Maisemore weir – the normal tidal limit and upstream limit for the bore

Stuart surfing a cold winter Severn Bore near Arlingham –  ‘it’s unusual to have the wave to one’s self!’23/1/2007. Credit Neil Law.

What an atmosphere as surfers flock to the big tides to ’tick off’ their bucket list (21/3/2007) Credit Mark Humpage

Final thoughts

Reflecting on my experiences and on Stuart’s stories which reveal both a passion and an intimate understanding of our tidal river, the Bore is truly one of Britain’s natural treasures. I’m not at all surprised that it was a much celebrated ‘ancient wonder of the British Isles’ in medieval times. Even today, and perhaps especially today, there are few places and times when you can feel so much ‘at one’ with nature and the wider solar system. The bore delivers this and more. With large-scale development proposals and shoreline modifications further downstream does it deserve further protection? Indeed, a recent academic study underscores the need for careful planning in tidal energy development within the Estuary (Source), suggesting that a 1.5 m drop in mean water level could result in a 15 km retreat of the bore.

Whilst the Bore is clearly still culturally significant to the river communities of the Lower Severn, beyond that, perhaps it’s considered a mere quirk. It’s the largest bore in the British Isles but how many people from the cities and towns around our estuary are aware of its existence, never mind have come to see it? Perhaps we need another Magnificent Severn Festival like the one Stuart helped organise back in 2009/10 to help raise its profile. Or even perhaps a new name? After all many of the bores Stuart has surfed elsewhere have names, the ‘Mascaret’, on the Dordogne and Garonne, and the fearsome ‘Pororocca’ on the Amazon. There’s even the infamous ‘Silver Dragon’ on the Qiantang River in China, the world’s largest bore which reaches a staggering 9 metre height.

Beyond considerations of just the bore itself, I’m aware of the need to continue to manage the increasing pressures on the river and its associated flood plains both here and further upstream. It’s great to see the work of the Severn Rivers Trust (which Stuart helped establish), which adopts a catchment-based approach, in line with SEP’s vision, as well as the efforts of more local groups, such as the Friends of Alney Island. With future climate change predictions, we certainly will need a resilient river system and such endeavours need our support. 

Finally, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this article as much as Stuart and I have reflecting on our various experiences. I hope it’s also encouraged you to get out there and watch a bore for real.