The hottest day of the year so far. So hot that even the air-conditioning has given up for the day as I drive down to South Devon after work. I swelter down endless country lanes until I round a corner and see it: an arch in the middle of the bay like a noble statue in the middle of a town square: Thurlestone Rock.
I meet up with the Happy Wild Swimming group with the aim of swimming out to this tiny tidal island. I've been so hot all day that I wonder about swimming without my wetsuit on. A quick reccy at the waters edge soon dissuades me. "Sod that." I go and get my wetsuit from the car.
It's been a while since I've swum in the sea and I'm nervous. I don't know what I'm scared of exactly but the rock seems a long way away, the sea feels gargantuan and intimidating at eye level as we enter the water and it's cold and smells of rotten seaweed. I get my head under the surface for a second and loose tendrils of seaweed appear in front of my goggles making me jump and splutter. Clouds begin to encroach on the sky and darken the water. Through the murk I see the shadow of a shoal of fish. They're making way for us as we swim towards the rock. The sight fills me with delight and dread in equal parts.
As I acclimatise to the cold sea, I swim with my head down in the water, surveying the crevices in the rock beneath me for creatures. I stop for a break and all of sudden the rock is right there in front of me. Now I can see the arch properly as it lies perpendicular to the beach. It's a grand sight, towering above us like a jagged slice of cathedral dome. We swim through and play on the slightly submerged rocks. Someone spots a compass jellyfish beneath them, its dirty brown crossed dome sinks into the seaweed as I float over, its tentacles sprawling menacingly. Then a blue jellyfish, neon and otherworldly. As the slight current moves the seaweed and me at the same time I have the disorienting illusion of enormous boulders on the sea floor washing around in the waves.
A group of teenagers in bikinis and shorts have swum out to the rock and start bombing each other, shouting and laughing. I feel like a wimp.
In a wave of melancholia I wonder why I've driven for two hours in a hot car just to swim to a rock. Do I like swimming as much as I convince myself? Is it worth it? Really? A gush of cold water floods down my back.
I take my time swimming back, not wanting to be in the hot car again, chatting to a swimming friend as we scull backwards to the shore, the rock towering over us with translucent clouds behind it backlit by the setting sun.
In the shallows some of us get our wetsuits off in the water to save the usual squeaky wrestling match on the beach. We throw them in a pile of neoprene and dive back into the water with just swimming costumes on. It's a fresh jolt and we whoop with the shock. It feels good.
Then, without discussion, without foresight, we swim back towards the rock. I swim with a fast pace to try and warm up, grabbing lungfuls of air as I power along, shoveling sea water behind me. The sun finally breaks free and lights up the sea beneath me as it rushes past, seaweed fronds billowing. My body feels free of restriction and I stretch my arms to the horizon with each stroke, the cold tickling my ribs, my muscles taut. I look up and my friends are doing the same, heads down, racing to the rock. Even quicker than before, we're back in the shadows of Thurlestone Rock. I swim away from the others, full of confidence now and too cold to stop and chat anyway. As I round the rock the low sun appears from behind it and blasts through the water in front of me, showing up its deep range of aqua hues.
I look around me and take it all in: the hotel on the headland bathing in the last light of the day; the crowds on the beach slowly dispersing, sticky with suncream; the multi-layered clouds above me and, framed through the arch, Burgh Island in the distance with it's magnificent Art Deco hotel. I'm buzzing with the light and the cold and the view.
On the drive home, Book at Bedtime on the radio, I know it was worth it. Swims always are.
Thursday, 21 July 2016
Monday, 18 July 2016
Plan B
It was a weekend of the plan B.
I'd been promising Elliott that we would go camping for, what… a year? With his mum going away for the weekend the promises became more authentic, acknowledged and inescapable. So, with a car full of tent, firewood and potatoes, and a very excited boy, I pulled up to the campsite on Exmoor that I'd been talking about for the last two weeks.
Campsite full. I stared at the sign in disbelief. I read it apologetically to Elliott and it didn't quite register with him either. "Does that mean we can't get in?" he said. His hot face crumpled and tears instantly welled up.
"Don't worry, we'll find somewhere else." I said quickly, just about managing to plug the dyke.
Plan B.
A quick map consultation and I found the pink mark highlighting the splendidly named Cloud Farm Campsite and we were on our way. Thankfully it wasn't full (don't think I wasn't dreading that scenario) and we pulled up in the loveliest of campsites and parked next to the river. One happy boy, one parenting point to me.
I wanted this trip to be more like the camping I did on the Duke of Edinburgh Awards when I was a teenager so I thought we would sleep in a smaller, two-man tent that I had enjoyed for years before Elliott was born. Quite a few years. 16 to be exact and it was second hand when I bought it. I unravelled it and ignored the musty smell. I looped the poles through the frail elastic hoops and overlooked the bird poo on the roof. I pegged out the flysheet and dismissed the strange shape the dome made. Elliott looked inside and said "It's too small". Then there was a slight gust of wind and the whole tent sagged and flattened like a wet cardboard box.
Plan B.
A last minute decision to put the massive family-sized tent in the roof box paid off. I bundled the broken tent back into the car and rolled out the new one. Elliott ran over to me and gave me a big hug. "Yay! I love this tent!" Camping gods: 0, me: 2.
I don't think of myself as the kind of person who deals with adversity well. I come from a family who, when plans don't go well, will turn the situation into a catastrophe, immediately abandon hope, blame as many others for their misfortune as possible and retell the story as a Shakesperian tragedy. But, for this weekend at least, I didn't. I dealt with each problem like it was just another twist in the tale.
Even though the campsite wasn't the one I had chosen and the tent wasn't what I imagined, the weekend was a success (my camp chair fell into the fire but that's by the by). Elliott went feral and came back from playing with two new friends covered in mud and marshmallows. I got to sit in front of a fire and stare at a darkening river for a moment. And we both went home having learned a few good life lessons.
I'd been promising Elliott that we would go camping for, what… a year? With his mum going away for the weekend the promises became more authentic, acknowledged and inescapable. So, with a car full of tent, firewood and potatoes, and a very excited boy, I pulled up to the campsite on Exmoor that I'd been talking about for the last two weeks.
Campsite full. I stared at the sign in disbelief. I read it apologetically to Elliott and it didn't quite register with him either. "Does that mean we can't get in?" he said. His hot face crumpled and tears instantly welled up.
"Don't worry, we'll find somewhere else." I said quickly, just about managing to plug the dyke.
Plan B.
A quick map consultation and I found the pink mark highlighting the splendidly named Cloud Farm Campsite and we were on our way. Thankfully it wasn't full (don't think I wasn't dreading that scenario) and we pulled up in the loveliest of campsites and parked next to the river. One happy boy, one parenting point to me.
I wanted this trip to be more like the camping I did on the Duke of Edinburgh Awards when I was a teenager so I thought we would sleep in a smaller, two-man tent that I had enjoyed for years before Elliott was born. Quite a few years. 16 to be exact and it was second hand when I bought it. I unravelled it and ignored the musty smell. I looped the poles through the frail elastic hoops and overlooked the bird poo on the roof. I pegged out the flysheet and dismissed the strange shape the dome made. Elliott looked inside and said "It's too small". Then there was a slight gust of wind and the whole tent sagged and flattened like a wet cardboard box.
Plan B.
A last minute decision to put the massive family-sized tent in the roof box paid off. I bundled the broken tent back into the car and rolled out the new one. Elliott ran over to me and gave me a big hug. "Yay! I love this tent!" Camping gods: 0, me: 2.
I don't think of myself as the kind of person who deals with adversity well. I come from a family who, when plans don't go well, will turn the situation into a catastrophe, immediately abandon hope, blame as many others for their misfortune as possible and retell the story as a Shakesperian tragedy. But, for this weekend at least, I didn't. I dealt with each problem like it was just another twist in the tale.
Even though the campsite wasn't the one I had chosen and the tent wasn't what I imagined, the weekend was a success (my camp chair fell into the fire but that's by the by). Elliott went feral and came back from playing with two new friends covered in mud and marshmallows. I got to sit in front of a fire and stare at a darkening river for a moment. And we both went home having learned a few good life lessons.
Tuesday, 12 July 2016
Goldfinch in Longrun Meadow
A woman stopped her bicycle on the riverside path to ask what we were looking at. A blackcap, one of our group said. She peered across the river to where we were looking. "It's well camouflaged isn't it?" I couldn't see it either but I had it on good authority that the Emperor wasn't in the altogether because natural historian Stephen Moss said so as he led a guided walk around the centre of Taunton.
I followed and asked questions and looked around me like a dog snapping at flies. It was the end of the day and after-work runners bounced past, rush-hour traffic settled down into a hum and a warm sheen descended on the town. A white blossom wafted around in great drifts and crunched like snow underfoot.
Stephen strode on and knocked out bird names: goldfinch, dunnock, green woodpecker. He pointed to the ones he could see. Too well-hidden for me to distinguish.
We walked across Longrun Meadow, a big area of long grass and coppiced trees close to the town centre, to what has become known as the Willow Cathedral, a domed structure grown from willow. We sheltered in its half shade and perfect bird hide quality.
And then, a small bird landed right above me. A goldfinch. I knew its red painted face and bright yellow patches from the porcelain birds my parents had on their mantelpiece when I was growing up. I watched it for a quiet minute as it twittered on top of the willow branch, looked around and then fluttered away. A moment of communion in the centre of Taunton. A moment of realisation, too, that I needed to slow down and look, and listen, for the life around me to sharpen and focus.
I followed and asked questions and looked around me like a dog snapping at flies. It was the end of the day and after-work runners bounced past, rush-hour traffic settled down into a hum and a warm sheen descended on the town. A white blossom wafted around in great drifts and crunched like snow underfoot.
Stephen strode on and knocked out bird names: goldfinch, dunnock, green woodpecker. He pointed to the ones he could see. Too well-hidden for me to distinguish.
We walked across Longrun Meadow, a big area of long grass and coppiced trees close to the town centre, to what has become known as the Willow Cathedral, a domed structure grown from willow. We sheltered in its half shade and perfect bird hide quality.
And then, a small bird landed right above me. A goldfinch. I knew its red painted face and bright yellow patches from the porcelain birds my parents had on their mantelpiece when I was growing up. I watched it for a quiet minute as it twittered on top of the willow branch, looked around and then fluttered away. A moment of communion in the centre of Taunton. A moment of realisation, too, that I needed to slow down and look, and listen, for the life around me to sharpen and focus.
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