What could be more eccentric in the travel department than making your own means of transport? I always fancied the idea of building my ark and then getting in it, Huck Finn-style, and slipping down the river to adventure. But what type of vessel? I want something that can be constructed with a minimum of fuss and expenditure inside a weekend, and I want the local craft, the home-spun and the traditional. That rules out kayak (Inuit origin), canoe (Huron), the catamaran (Kerala) and even yacht (Norwegian). "Can't you build a rowing boat?" asks my partner, Sophie. "A skiff, or maybe a punt?"
I add one extra proviso: no particular level of craftsmanship required. The only contender, I decide, is the humble coracle. And, fortunately, the Green Wood Centre in Ironbridge, Shropshire, does a weekend course with participants guaranteed to take away a coracle at the end. They don't guarantee that it will float, mind you.
Arriving on a Saturday morning, I grab a cup of tea with course tutor Terry Kenny and my fellow student boat builders. Paul Jones, a senior lecturer in theatre at Staffordshire University, tells me the word coracle is of Welsh origin, one of only a handful to have penetrated the English language. In fact, there are fewer words of Welsh in English than there are of Arawak, the language of an extinct Caribbean Indian tribe. Maybe, Paul says, we could start adding to our Welsh vocabulary with words such as cwtch (hug) and smoothio (ironing). I'm not sure if he's pulling my leg on the latter.
Coracles themselves must have seemed destined for the history books a few years ago. They had all the qualities that should have condemned them to the scrapheap: homemade, cheap, simple, indestructible, portable, fun, and never available from Tesco. Their only genuine working function was as salmon-netting boats on Welsh rivers such as the Teifi, an activity the Romans had noted. There were people who loved these little boats, however, most of them Welsh. One was Bernard Thomas, a Teifi salmon fisherman who famously paddled his coracle across the Channel in 1974. Our tutor, Terry, has done his own bit, constructing 282 coracles himself since he began in 1989 as a student on the inaugural course at the Green Wood Centre.
"The actual construction has been refined over the years," he tells me, as we start by nailing three short posts to a length of board which will form the seat. "It took a week, back at the beginning; now we can get it finished, except for painting, in two days."
Next, we bend green ash lathes to form a gunwale, fixing them to the ends of the seat board. Peter Badge, another participant, tells me that since retiring he's been hunting down coracles all over the world as a hobby. We even work out that we have visited the same remote place in India, Hoggenakkal on the River Kaveri, where coracles are still made. There, however, our experiences differ: I hired one to take me on a river jaunt; Peter not only took trips but bought the craft and brought it home.
We knock off for an excellent lunch in the centre's cafe, and discover the various reasons why a dozen perfectly normal people end up making coracles. "There's a particularly beautiful stretch of the River Severn I want to drift down," says one man. "The course was a birthday present," say two others. "Only two days and you take home a boat," puts in another.
Lunch is not lingered over. Everyone is soon back to working hard, and there is a pleasing buzz of focused activity. The British shipbuilding industry is not dead yet. We curl lathes to create a hull, fixing on gunwales and seat posts. Once we have a basic shape, we start weaving other lathes into the frame, adding strength. By the close of day one, everyone has a rough boat-like object, ready for the calico cloth cover to be stitched into place.
Day two begins with a treat. As there will be no time to sail our own coracles, we are to have a brief lesson in the art. We move to a small lake, taking a collection of coracles with us. First impressions are of floating on a tea tray that will not listen to commands: I try to paddle forwards and either spin or go backwards. One unfortunate tips over.
History records that the army of Edward III used coracles when invading France at the end of the hundred years war, so one assumes there must be a reliable way of operating the treacherous beast. Fortunately Peter has learned an excellent single-handed paddling technique from the Teifi salmon-netters. The idea is to wrap your arm around the long-handled paddle and use a figure-of-eight movement – the other arm then being free to lift nets and bash fish on the head. To my surprise it works, and I am soon making progress – not rapid, but in the direction that I choose.
An hour later, back at the workshop, Terry hands out yards of calico cloth and demonstrates how to fold, tuck and then stitch our hull skin. This takes longer than expected and we still have a paddle to make. By five, however, I am loading my coracle up on the car roof – shame I forgot to bring a roof-rack – and saying goodbye.
A month later, after three coats of bitumen paint, I finally get to launch the ship on Ullswater in the Lake District. There's no champagne – one hefty smack from a bottle would destroy my lovely vessel. Instead we toast her with cider and then take turns. The kids love it. A perfect messing-about boat for them, I reckon. As for me, I'm not sure: maybe a bit of camouflage paint and then go pike-fishing? Most likely though, I'll wait for the right summer evening and simply lie back, float downstream and read my battered copy of Huckleberry Finn.
• Green Wood Centre coracle courses can be booked at greenwoodcentre.org.uk. The courses are held annually over the August bank holiday. This year's course is sold out. The 2012 price has not been finalised but this year's course cost £295pp plus £50 for materials. The Welsh coracle centre is at Cenarth Falls, Carmarthenshire (coraclemuseum.co.uk)
