The water heals.
Adventuring Beyond Limits – Life After Cancer
I was once an adventurous soul, roaming across the UK in search of quiet, isolated places. My last great outing was a 160-mile bikepacking journey through Shropshire—a gentle ride along forgotten tracks and peaceful lanes, surrounded by the calm of the countryside.
That was two years ago now—two years since I was told the cancer had returned. This time, there was no escaping it. Stage 4. The prognosis was bleak, and the best the doctors could offer was medication to slow the inevitable. And yet, here I stand—three years on from that moment. The treatment has all but ended. Remarkably, the cancer has nearly disappeared. There’s no set path forward, no promises—just a 50/50 chance it could return. A medical oddity, they say.
Even with that uncertainty hanging over me, the pull toward adventure never left. The desire to explore the wilds, to immerse myself in the unknown—it remains, stronger than ever. But life has changed. Type 1 diabetes, induced by the treatment, adds a new layer of complexity to any journey. It’s erratic and unpredictable, like a new companion I didn’t choose.
By chance, a close friend’s husband had recently started an adventure company with a powerful mission: to help people with disabilities experience the outdoors—to adventure beyond limits. For people like me, who might otherwise be excluded, it offered a way back into the world I loved.
I’m not one for group activities. I prefer solitude—my own pace, my own space. So this was something new for me. But I took the plunge and joined a two-day canoe expedition down the River Severn.
My trusty campervan made the experience more comfortable—my own little base with a cosy bed, a kitchen, and a private space to retreat to when needed. At 44, I feel far older some days, and that extra comfort goes a long way.
We gathered at Montford Bridge, a small canoe hire spot tucked behind the Wingfield Arms, with a caravan site beside it. I settled in and mingled with the others. The group was diverse—people with a range of physical and non-physical challenges—but all open, kind, and welcoming. It made meeting new people easier than I expected.
As the organisers set up camp and prepared the gear, the rest of us shared cups of tea and light conversation. The first night is always a bit of a test—gauging who you gel with, finding common ground. But this group was different. There was a calm acceptance, a shared understanding, and a collective desire to enjoy the journey. A brief visit to the pub after dinner sealed a few new friendships and set the tone for the days ahead.
Day 1: Into the Wild
By 9am, we were up and ready. Canoes were assigned, gear checked, lifejackets fitted. Then we were off, travelling by van to our first launch site—Sychpwll, a beautiful little eco-retreat nestled just over the Welsh border, beside the River Vyrnwy.
I helped set up canoes and assisted those with mobility issues. I’d opted to share a canoe with the group leader. With limited use of my left hand—missing fingers and all—I find it easier to control the paddle on the right.
We set off, meandering along the peaceful Vyrnwy. The river gently carried us forward, tracing the line between England and Wales. Kingfishers flitted from branches and dove silently into the water, while herons stood like statues by the banks. Cows wandered nearby fields, watching us pass with curious eyes.
Time bends on the river. Hours pass without notice. We tethered our canoes for a floating lunch, basking in the sun, drifting quietly downstream.
Soon, the Vyrnwy merged into the Severn, bringing a sudden surge of movement. Twisting bends, low-hanging branches, and obstructions—tree debris dumped by local landowners—made navigation tricky. Swans, guarding their nests, watched us warily. Thankfully, we gave them wide berth.
This part of the Severn was quieter than the busy stretches to come. The group moved easily, sharing gentle jokes, enjoying the rhythm of the river. Despite low water levels from weeks of dry weather, we pressed on—sometimes dragging our canoes through shallows to deeper channels.
Back at Montford Bridge by evening, some went for showers, others took naps. We later shared a hearty curry and made our way to the local pub. For such a sleepy Shropshire village, the pub was lively—an eclectic mix of characters, arguments, and drinks that made us feel almost normal by comparison! We returned to camp and gathered around a small fire, drinks in hand, ending the night with laughter and warmth.
Day 2: Into Shrewsbury
The next morning began with porridge, kit checks, and final plans. We launched from Montford again, drifting beneath one of Thomas Telford’s elegant bridges. The Severn pulled us gently onward.
As we approached Shrewsbury, the river grew busier. Canoeists, paddleboarders, and families out for the day shared the waters. One couple even lit a barbecue mid-river and sipped wine as if at a garden party—pure joy.
We passed the Grade II listed Fitz Manor, built around 1445, and further along, the rather sobering MOD training grounds, with warning signs of unexploded ordnance lining the banks. A sharp reminder of how history and present-day threats coexist quietly in these landscapes.
Shrewsbury finally came into view—its riverbanks teeming with people. Sparrows darted from their nests in the muddy riverbanks, flickering through the air like sparks.
The Severn is a river of contrasts—wild, agricultural, and urban—all stitched together by its ever-changing waters. That day, the water was low, and our paddles scraped the riverbed more than once. But we made it. We adventured beyond limits.
Moving Forward: Life Beyond the Diagnosis
This journey wasn’t just about rivers and paddles. It was about reclaiming something I thought I’d lost—freedom. Life after cancer is different. It doesn’t return to what it was; it becomes something new. Each morning now feels like a fresh start, unpromised but deeply valuable.
There are still challenges. My body bears scars, and my mind carries memories I’d rather forget. But every moment on the water, every shared laugh around a campfire, reminds me that I am still here. Still living. Still able to adventure, even if the journey looks a little different.
If you're facing something similar—whether it’s illness, disability, or grief—know this: the road ahead might be uncertain, but it’s still yours to walk. Or cycle. Or paddle. Life isn’t about avoiding the storm—it’s about learning how to dance in the rain, to float down the river when the wind has gone out of your sails, and to keep moving forward, even if only slowly.
Adventure doesn’t end with a diagnosis. Sometimes, it truly begins there.
