Earlier this month a Richmond resident took on a mammoth challenge on the Thames: kayaking home 200km from Cricklade.

Joel Whittaker, a former paratrooper of the Parachute Regiment, completed the journey in two days amid extreme heat.

He was kayaking for the charity Bravehound and aiming to raise a total of £5,000.

Joel, who lives near Church Road, has written all about the experience - about what he saw, hunger, fatigue and the dozens of locks he had to pass through.

After 170km he found a hole in his kayak and it left him pondering whether he could carry on.

Read all about it below in this detailed account of his challenge.

35 hours and 52 minutes. That's how long it took me to kayak the Thames.

Starting on a hot Friday afternoon I paddled almost continuously to reach London early on Sunday morning completing nearly 200 kilometres in my trusty kayak.

The route is easy enough, you just have to keep going downstream. Leaving Lechlade (the first navigable bit) I paddled roughly East to reach Oxford, then South to Reading, then go up a bit to Henley and Marlow, before finally heading mostly East through Maidenhead, Windsor and onto Teddington.

From my start point at Lechlade I headed East towards Oxford along a twisting narrow river. High bushy banks were flanked by old WW2 pill boxes (bunkers). In WW2 the Thames and these bunkers formed a defensive line, designed to slow any advancing enemy forces. But now the bunkers look lazy, softened by age their defences finally breached by clumps of witch hazel, Alder, and Willow.

The temperature was a steady 35C throughout the day, and on this sluggish stretch of water I slowly cooked. I kept placing my cap into the water and then throwing it fully onto my steaming head. The water just seemed to disappear off the cap immediately in this insane heat.

Reaching Oxford I could see families and friends relaxing by the cooling river, enjoying each other's company. The meadows opened up onto the river just north of Oxford and I weaved past kayakers, paddle boarders and swimmers - all enjoying this amazing resource - smiling away on this hot summer day.

As I approached Oxford city I heard my buddy Ernesto call my name. Ernesto cycled alongside me for a while, even passing me a cold Coke. But Oxford and Ernesto soon faded as I paddled on into the cooler breeze of the night, keen to make distance.

And it became a loooooong night. I think around 2am I stopped at a lock and closed my eyes for half an hour or so on a wooden bench. But mostly it was a continuous paddle - not wanting to stitch up my tomorrow's self by dragging the pace.

At around 4am I became 'no-mind'; something that takes oriental sages sitting in a cave an age to achieve. Around 6am I began to pine for the sun and coffee in equal measure. And at around 8am I reached the rowers of Goring and my 100k point.

The locks at Goring were disorienting to my already dilapidated mind. Did I mention the locks? Oh my. If kayaking for 200 kilometres was some kind of penance - the locks were pure perjury. I didn't have the time or inclination to actually use the lock system properly - they were designed for slowly transporting boats up and down elevations, a remnant of the Thames' industrial heritage - so I opted to carry, or portage, my kayak across each one.

That's 45 locks in total. Each lock became an epic struggle as I wriggled and cursed my way out of a tight fitting sea kayak, hoofed it onto my shoulder to carry it the 100 or so meters barefoot, and then lowered the thing back into the river before wriggling my way back in. I was sure the kayak only weighed around 20 kgs (unladen) but it seemed to gain weight at every lock.

I had consisted of mostly eating nuts so far, but when I remembered in the middle of the night about some cheese I had stashed in the rear watertight compartment, I feasted like a king.

There were very few water resupply points, often the ones at a lock would be in use as a boat topped up its supplies, or I just couldn't find a tap so water could have been an issue. But, I'd brought one of those filter bottles which meant I could dip the bottle into the river next to my kayak, screw the filtered top back on, and drink straight from the Thames. Not something I was contemplating rather down stream but all the way to Maidenhead that water tasted good.

I had three clear markers to reach which would let me know I was on track for this 200k epic:

Oxford at 50k

Goring at 100k

Maidenhead at 150k. Teddington was my end point at 200k.

I'd roughly worked out my pace of around 6kph would mean each leg should take around 8 hours. Obviously I hadn't factored in portaging all those locks, or taking a wee nap in the middle of the night, so my overall time did suffer. By the time I'd reached Marlow I was already around 4 hours slower than planned. I know this because my buddy Debs had waited around for me for that long having SUP'd (stand-up paddleboarded) from Maidenhead to meet me and escort back that way.

It had been a long while since we'd last met and the Marlow to Maidenhead section flew by as we caught up on each other's news. In fact the last time we were together we were running escape tunnels from a prison camp but that's another story. Debi saw me off with some jelly-baby supplies and words of encouragement, both were desperately needed as my body began to ache with over 30 hours of gruelling paddling and portaging behind me. Kayaking the Thames continuously was becoming a hard slog.

I kept going and it was early evening when I reached Windsor and saw that magnificent castle gleaming in the 'golden hour' before dusk. I was starting to feel pretty exhausted, but all I could do was keep going. Stopping just wasn't an option I could even entertain. Swans and geese welcomed me here with great fanfare and I knew I was going to make it, perched as I was on the edges of London.

Night fell and it seemed to take an age to get around Windsor park. I began to hallucinate, the hours of no sleep and constant paddling taking their toll. Riverside trees and shrubs became skulls, a favourite vision of the night, and the blackness fell for the second time on this epic voyage.

Sometime later a small limousine of a boat passed me, it's music waking me from my paddling stupor. Drunken lads were heading back from a session somewhere, I listened to their funny banter as they slowly eased past my kayak. "Fancy a beer" the driver slurred, "I'm good thanks, busy getting to the end of the Thames" I replied though I knew I'd lost him at "I'm good" and he continued on; "don't say we didn't offer" he called back.

I could really have done with a beer at that point, an ice cold, soothing cold one would have been magic but I knew I'd be paddling deep into the night and the chances of falling asleep at the paddle were high enough.

It was pitch black by the time I arrived at Old Windsor Lock. As I approached what looked like another hellish out-point I became aware my bottom was getting wet. The boat had had water slopping around in it for a while - a legacy of my capsizing some time back - but now the water in my seat felt higher, I put my hand down and the water seemed to be deep. I paddled to the edge of the lock, keen not to go down in the pitch black water.

I got out, and hauling on a line attached to the base of my kayak I tried to lift it out but it felt incredibly heavy. Pulling harder the line suddenly went slack and a retaining hoop whizzed past my head. The kayak now started to drift off towards the lock slowly sinking with this newly formed hole.

I eventually pulled the kayak out and could see a hole just in front of my seat where the hoop once was, bits of fibreglass were frayed around it and it looked like a big fix. My emergency duct tape was unlikely to suffice here.

Disappointed only for a short while, in my mind I rationalised things. I'd already done 170k, had reached London, and the hole now in the kayak had stopped all possibility of continuing on. I scrambled with the kayak onto the bank and stashed it in the hedge.

With 1 percent battery in my phone I called a friend who lived nearby to pick me up. This was around midnight on a Saturday night so I was hoping this guy was A- sober B- awake. He passed point A and as I waited for him to arrive I began to hallucinate as I was so tired. Leaning against the lock bridge I saw trees morph into people, it all felt really harmless but Andy, my pal, seemed to be taking an age to arrive.

Finally car lights beamed around the corner and as Andy's car got closer it began to dawn on my why he'd taken so long. His Canadian canoe was on the roof.

"Do you want to finish it?" he beamed out of the window, looking at me, then up at his canoe, then back to me again.

I remembered times like this when I was in the army. We'd be on some hellish route march across a windswept Sailsbury plain, and finally reaching a designated endpoint we'd haplessly wander where the transport was. Did we get the compass bearing wrong? Were we lost? invariably this would be a test, a commander would come out with some lame excuse like "The trucks broken down lads", and we'd have to keep going for xxx k's to reach the next pick up point. At this point, and especially in training it wasn't unusual for young troopers to say "that's it!, I can't go on" which of course was the point of the exercise, to weed out those who couldn't keep going. It was a mental game. So, used to mental torture as I was, and with all thoughts of a shower, omelette, and vino rapidly gone, I replied truthfully: "of course, we have to".

At some point in the early hours of Sunday morning this epic kayak, Andy and I stopped paddling and got some rest.

It was an amazing experience, one I hope to repeat with a lighter kayak and a faster pace - and some decent chow. Even though it was an individual effort, it never really is of course and I'd like to thanks all those who helped me achieve this huge endurance feat and please check out my charity page for injured veterans.

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