Ascent of the Guadalquivir

The Vikings never had to put up with it! A torch shining in the face and an inquisitive policeman behind it.

It was two o’clock in the morning; I was lying in my sleeping bag on the beach at Sanlucar de Barrameda, beside my boat, waiting for the rising tide which was due in three hours. My plan was to launch the boat and motor inland on the mighty River Guadalquivir to Seville.

This was the route followed by the Norse raiders, by Phoenicians probably and by the gold laden Spanish galleons returning from the New World to unload their fabulous cargoes at Seville’s Torre de Oro.

But back in the present, after the usual identity check and full explanations I was allowed to snuggle down for a few more hours. I was awoken by the gurgling tide as it gently started its inexorable rise, gradually overcoming the outward flow of the river. While early starting fishing boats hurried out to sea in a cacophony of throbbing diesels it was the work of a moment to launch the boat, park the trailer and push off under oars out into the still dark river, towards a slowly blinking channel marker buoy. By the time I passed it, dawn was breaking over the old town of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, to which he returned after his unasked for term of duty in command of the Spanish Armada.

In daylight I could use my engine and now under power, I settled down for a journey that would last as long as the tide was in my favour. My calculations indicated that at about eleven o clock I would have to turn around and retrace my route. I was wondering how far up the waterway I would be able to get.

As the light strengthened I could make out, in the distance, on either side the low banks with their margin of mud flats waiting to be covered by the rising tide. Beyond the banks I knew there stretched the huge rice fields that allow the region to claim to be the biggest producer of rice in the country. Ahead stretched a wide expanse of brown water. As I looked I was amazed to see a multitude of fishes jumping out of the water and as I motored into the midst of them their frenzy continued so that several landed in the boat. I kept three of the best and thereafter tried to return further visitors to the river. Suicidal fish, what next on this exciting waterway!

What was next was to keep an eye on progress by checking off the numbered channel markers, whose function was to guide ocean going vessels as they head for the commercial docks at Seville, eighty kilometers from the sea. I heard a far-off rumble of a diesel engine, looked behind and realized that I would soon be overtaken by one of these vessels which was gradually looming large behind me as I hugged the right hand bank to give her room to pass.

All this time my little outboard engine was pushing me upstream following the winding course of the river so that at times my heading was not north but east and even south of east. Now I was passing permanently moored fishing platforms, operated by lowering enormous gaping nets at the right time in the right season to catch migratory fish attempting to follow the river to its source in the mountains of Cazorla. Friendly river men who came and went in small boats, all with noticeably bigger outboards than mine, tended the platforms. I guessed at times of flood and adverse winds they would need the extra power to go about their business safely and effectively. On my left stretched the famous nature reserve of Coto Donaña and I was aware that within its boundaries roamed lynxes, boars and badgers, while its skies were inhabited by some of the rarest bird species in the world. Down by the river however I was only able to spot harriers, cormorants, herons, sooty terns and gulls. A lone flamingo showed itself, apparently unable to fly but foraging among the reeds at the edge of the water.

After a hurried and early lunch on the move, I realized that the inward flowing tide was slackening as shown by the ever-decreasing ripples on the channel markers. Reluctantly I had set myself a deadline of eleven o’clock and, just short of the riverside village of Queipo, I swung the boat’s head in a wide circle and set off southwards towards the sea, the trailer and the car. The wind was getting up by now, making the water choppy (wind over tide say the sailors), but with the current of the river under my boat and the help of the outgoing tide, I made good time back to the gastronomic delights of Sanlucar; grilled prawns and chilled manzanilla!

I made a resolve to find a way next time to start at my point of furthest north and finish in Seville at the Torre de Oro.

Article by John Thurston