Finding Monty

Map Photos: Andy Torbet People gather on Devil's Bridge to watch the divers Andy giant strides into the best dive of the trip Rock formations and debris in River Lune Making friends with a local eel Stunning visibility in the River Orchy Checking the flow before planning the dive The River Orchy Full of narrow gorges created by megalithic boulders Beautiful scenery at River Orchy Sunset from Monty's croft Diving for scallops Back in the blue The hunters return triumphant

As you will have read, my friend and erstwhile colleague, Monty Halls, has been making a television programme about living in a remote croft in northern Scotland. He had been filing his monthly column promptly by email, but for his latest report, he had mysteriously gone AWOL with the deadline fast approaching. So, at the behest of DIVE’s concerned editor, it was my mission to seek out the errant columnist and gently encourage him to get writing. But the endeavour was twofold – the road trip north was also an opportunity for me to seek out and report on Britain’s little-known river dives.

On an island with a famous coastline and no shortage of inland lakes, river diving is largely an unknown quantity. I wanted to find out where the suitable rivers were, if they could be dived and whether it is worth the effort. And at the end of it all, I could hopefully enjoy some diving with Monty himself, if I could smoke him out.

I dived a number of UK rivers as an army diver (along with some equally grim sites abroad), but never for fun. I’ve always enjoyed diving different locations, especially if no one has ever been there before. An internet search threw up a few suggestions that seemed to hold potential – two rivers just off the M6 and another two around Glencoe in western Scotland. I picked up my buddy Ian Tannocks at Birmingham airport and we set off on our quest aquatic.

The first river was the Ribble at Stainforth in North Yorkshire, where a waterfall – Stainforth Force – creates a deep pool preceded by smaller ones and surrounded by trees. Picture the scene: two men struggle into their drysuits (working on the assumption that the rivers would be freezing) and approach the entry point at the waterfall. They stand at the edge, fully kitted up, checks complete and feeling utterly foolish as a gaggle of five-year-old girls in pink swimsuits play in the pool they’re about to heroically stride into.

We removed our hoods and gloves, but it didn’t really go a long way towards levelling things. However, the sun was beating down and heatstroke beckoned, so we had to go for it – straight in, to the bottom and then straight out again. The visibility was non-existent, so there was literally nothing to see. For anyone sufficiently optimistic to try this one again, the maximum depth is 7m – but for me, the only memorable aspect of the experience was ripping off my drysuit cuff after the ‘dive’. Ah well…

Refusing to allow this early setback to dampen our spirits, we made the short drive up to Kirkby Lonsdale in Cumbria, stopping only to buy some gaffer tape for my ruined drysuit cuff. Thus re-equipped, we kitted up and, on the banks of the River Lune, were once again shamed by the presence of various small children in shorts. We dived the river at the Devil’s Bridge, a site that had several recommendations on the web, so we hoped it would provide a better dive. We even met a local couple who had just taken their kids for a dive (all in wetsuits) and gave us a run-down of the site.

After employing one of the river urchins to hand me my fins, we flopped in and were welcomed with relatively decent visibility. It may not have been like those alpine lakes with visibility like chilled vodka, but it was actually rather nice. As with the Ribble, there was no discernible current and we simply bimbled downstream.

There are plenty of eels and trout to see on this dive, but the rock formations are the main attraction. The water has carved them into unusual shapes and it’s certainly different to anything you’ll see off the coast. So I was actually having fun, even though the temporary repair job on my wrist seal was proving to have the water-repellant quality of toilet paper. Still, after a pleasant swim back upstream, we exited to answer a series of questions from the gathering crowd – Ian fielded the adults while, for some reason, I had to entertain the youngsters. Still, it was some positive community relations for British diving!

We started north with only a short stop at Loch Lomond for a stone-skimming masterclass by Ian (I’ve never seen someone skim a lump of tarmac) and made the Bridge of Orchy Hotel well before last orders. Early the next morning, we drove the scenic track down to the bridge on the River Orchy, attempting to kit up while never actually remaining in one place in order to evade the Luftwaffe of midges that attacked us, then leapt into the river. After the first two dives in England, I had high hopes that Scotland was going to produce the goods, and the visibility from the bridge looked amazing.

We weren’t disappointed. The visibility was more than 10m and the water had the golden peaty tint of whisky. The sunlight dropped through the surface in angled shafts, lighting ornately carved walls and a pebble-bottom strewn with megalithic boulders. From around a corner came half a dozen salmon, their large size and healthy appearance testifying to the purity of the river. The water was surprisingly warm – a good thing, as it was pouring in at my wrist like a tidal bore. Still, I was comfortable: there was no real current, so we just relaxed and wandered around. This dive was brilliant and I can recommend the short detour if you’re heading up the A82.

Our final dive before we reached Monty’s hideout was supposed to be the Etive, the next river on our journey north. After a few false starts trying to locate the right path, we strolled the 300m down to the water. The recent lack of rainfall meant the water was clear, but so shallow that we would have been in danger of scraping our masks on the bottom. So we decided to push on north and see if we crossed anything better.

The only promising river we came across was at the bridge over the Spean. It looked similar to the Orchy, but accessing it in dive kit would be difficult and getting back out impossible. I normally keep a climbing rope in the car but had removed it to make room for all the diving equipment. If I’d had this, we’d certainly have given it a go – something to think about if you’re travelling that way.

After many more hours of driving, we finally arrived at Monty’s croft and were met by a wild-eyed, unshaven and deeply tanned Mr Halls. After much shaking of hands, we went to the pub to pick up his new RIB. With the deal completed and after a few celebratory ales, we retired to Monty’s cottage. It’s a lovely little croft, which he has been renovating over the weeks and sits in a secluded bay visited by a variety of whales, dolphins, seals and basking sharks. The latter turned up a week after our visit, as is the habit with basking sharks.

Monty’s Highland paradise was undergoing a plague of midges. I tried various lotions, but they were as much use as smearing myself in jam. Then Monty gave me a bottle of Skin So Soft, which apparently prevents the midges from landing on your skin by making it slippery. The locals buy it in industrial quantities. You can just imagine huge, ginger-bearded crofters asking at the wholesalers for six gallons of moisturiser – men like mountains with skin like supermodels. So after a sleepless, midge-infested night in Monty’s shed, we were finally ready to go diving.

It turned out that Monty had been so busy he hadn’t been able to dive much, but he had sneaked off for a few cheeky dives with DIVE’s marine biologist, British Beasts author Sue Scott. Sue lives in nearby Strome, itself a noted venue for loch dives, so it wasn’t surprising that she should enlist Monty’s help for one of her critter hunts (see British Beasts, page 83). So was this his excuse for falling behind with the column? It was better than claiming the midges had eaten it, I suppose.

We decided to cruise around the coast in search of a likely spot. As we got kitted up, I taped my drysuit to a washing-up glove (the least successful solution thus far). We picked a wall between two bays and dropped in. The brown tint of the rivers was now replaced with the familiar blue-green of the sea. We spent half an hour weaving our way around tiny gullies covered in kelp, spotting huge spiny starfish, nudibranchs, spiny spider crabs and a few small gobies. By this time, my entire suit had filled up and I was beginning to get a bit chilly.

I spotted a scallop and pointed it out to Ian to trigger the start of the hunt. After 15 minutes, we had gathered enough for dinner and ascended, surfacing next to a beautiful lion’s mane jellyfish. A pleasant little dive was made more exciting by the fact we were breaking new ground and the reward of coming across the scallop bed. That night, we sat outside the croft and watched the sun set over the islands, as we dined on pan-fried scallops, cooked over a campfire – blissfully content with the world, despite the midges.

River diving is something that many of us have never done, but I would encourage you to try it. Changing the environment we dive in forces us to reconsider risk management, kit configuration and method of diving, which can only improve us as divers. And I wouldn’t just constrain the recommendation to rivers but I’d include any environment that’s new to you. I’d also encourage looking for sites that have never been dived (remembering to consider and mitigate against potential hazards). You’ll find that most aren’t great, but the unknown potential lends them an added excitement – and on the occasion you find a hidden gem, the feeling is outstanding. We don’t need to travel to Patagonia or Siberia to find these places; there are still fantastic undiscovered dive sites right here in the UK.