Don’t be a wimp – nothing beats a swim in the sea
(Especially when it’s blooming freezing!)
LaST bank holiday weekend the ‘summer’ weather was depressi ngly predictable. In the trendy seaside town of Whitstable in Kent, the temperature hovered around 17 degrees. a nippy breeze was blowing and, every now and then, clouds brought cold shade and occasional slight drizzle.
Three weathers in three hours. Tourists wandered up and down the beach wrapped in anoraks, fleece hats, thick j eans and scarves. Occasionally, I spotted a brave soul in shorts, but they’d opted for bulky layers on top.
No wonder I attracted surprised looks as I tiptoed across the pebble beach, wrapped in just a towel, hoping the l ocal paparazzi were nowhere around to spot a ‘ great white’ female whale — and then sprinted as fast as I could i nto the blissfully refreshing (and yes, freezing cold) waves.
My graceful breaststroke was as calming as any yoga session as I slowly made my way out to sea, being drawn back and forth by the tide for a good 20minute swim through the grey waters, gently slicing through a slight swell.
Onshore, the fleece-wearing bystanders were incredulous — one man stopped and asked my partner: ‘Is that woman mad?’ Sadly, that is the general reaction to anyone over the age of ten swimming in open water without a wetsuit.
No wonder we’ve become a nation of namby-pamby souls who shun the sea to shiver on shore. I’m made of stronger stuff. Every year I’m impatient for the frosty weather to end, as that signals the start of my prolonged bathing season.
I’m generally the only person in the water, along with a few chaps windsurfing or floating by on their paddleboards, clad in black rubber from neck to ankle like bulbous dolphins.
Ever since I wore a trendy black-andwhite rubber dress to a wild party in the Eighties (and couldn’t get it off at the end of the evening as it had stuck to my bottom), I have hated the notion of tight rubber. How do you go to the loo? I find wetsuits creepy.
I thought we were made of tougher stuff, but these days most of us only swim if the water is 20 degrees and we’re on a beach in blazing sun — so not in Britain.
Go to Cornwall and surfing beaches are full of men, women and children all wearing wetsuits (which might keep you warm, but mean you can’t feel the water on your skin), even in high summer.
author Susie Parr has written an excellent history of swimming (The Story Of Swimming) and reckons package holidays and heated i ndoor pools are why swimming in open water, seen as a cure-all by the Victorians, has declined in the 20th century, along with our seaside towns.
SHE’S a passionate wild swimmer, too — and was spotted bathing in Margate last weekend. Swimming i n open water is utterly addictive. You are in charge of your destiny. Even Byron was a fan.
So, what went wrong? as small children, everyone swam in the sea. It was part of growing up.
The minute the calendar got past Easter, every weekend followed the same pattern. My mum and dad would load up the car with windbreaks, rugs, egg sandwiches in an old cake tin and a Thermos full of tea, and we’d head to the South Coast, Suffolk or Kent.
My sister and I would strip off immediately, regardless of the weather, and start building a sandcastle, spending hours running in and out of the sea, totally unbothered by goosepimples and bracing wind.
Summer holidays spent with our granny in North Wales followed the same pattern — hours on the beach every day dodging huge jellyfish, trying to swim across the Menai Strait to anglesey, which was miles away.
Or we’d be chucking ourselves in the village stream looking for fish. Now, in my 60s, I’m recreating those simple pleasures.
My first really wild swim took place in New Zealand about 15 years ago. I was hiking the Routeburn track with a guide, Matt. When we reached isolated lake Mackenzie in the mountains, he encouraged me to strip off and swim in my undies.
after six hours on a rocky trail, it was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life.
I forgot about what might be lurking under the surface. My body adjusted to the glacial temperature surprisingly quickly. as long as I kept moving and not thinking too much, I was fine. Back on dry land, I felt euphoric.
after that life-changing experience, I was hooked. For the rest of that trip I swam in rivers (dodging some huge eels) and off isolated beaches. Since then, I’ve enjoyed swimming in all weathers — ploughing up and down a tiny pool seems mechanical, repetitive and not very challenging.
Now, each time I visit a new beach or lake, it’s a chance for a dip.
I’m not claiming to be a fantastic swimmer, by the way. at school I got a certificate for swimming breaststroke a mile-and-a-half up and down Fulham Baths, but I’ve never bothered to learn another style as I’m keen to keep my trademark red hair (100 per cent dyed) out of the water.
I do ring the changes with a bit of sedate backstroke, but my swimming is all about emptying the mind, not some type of brutal physical exertion.
after the initial shock, your body adjusts. Then you can be alone with your thoughts, unbothered by mobile phones and people trying to get in touch.
The rhythm of breathing and slowly moving your arms in circles is completely calming. as no one will be watching you, stretchy one-piece costumes are perfect.
last year I bought a snazzy black-and-white Next swimsuit online, but the size wasn’t quite right, so I gave it to my fearless friend Philippa a nd ordered another for me.
We went swimming together (again the only females in the water) near Bude, Cornwall, last September. The locals probably thought that they were seeing double when two statuesque 6 ft women exited the waves in identical costumes!
In our minds, we were channelling Ursula andress in dr No.
another pal, deborah, is always up for a wild swim. a few years ago, we went on a posh cruise around the Western Isles of Scotland and made a secret pact to swim off every island we visited.
Other passengers were appalled. Their idea of a holiday was to disembark at each port, pile into a minibus and be driven around, stopping for tea and cakes.
The highlight of their day was choosing swanky outfits for dinner, but we had a totally different agenda — despite the sea being nippier than the water from my cold tap at home. We swam off the beach on Harris, where the Queen used to come ashore f rom the Royal Yacht Britannia for a picnic, negotiating dense seaweed.
We braved the waves on Eriskay, North and South Uist, Oban and Skye, and even did a bit of loch swimming. It was magical. In the Marche, northern Italy, two years ago, deborah and I got up every day to swim i n an i solated reservoir for an hour.
We never met another soul. Our only companions were herons, ducks and huge glittering trout. Compared with the pool in our rented villa, the water was very cold, but twice as refreshing. Swimming in a pool is restricting and robotic. You are reduced to counting laps.
I’ve swum in the rivers of australia and the lakes of Spain, France and Switzerland. I’ve got the tide tables on my BlackBerry so I can see when it’s the perfect time to hop on the high-speed train to Kent and pull on my bathing suit.
I even keep tight-fitting rubber swimming shoes (indispensable for pebbles) in the car boot.
You soon forget the cold and enter a Zen-like state of bliss.
and, best of all, your body burns plenty of calories as it heats up afterwards. There you go: fighting flab with a diet. Time to get swimming!