Monday 28th September 4.00pm

Monday 28^th 4.00pm

I've been walking the mascot on some hills above the sea, looking down as it's grey/green flat calm surface, and though it's late, I'm rushing to catch a train, it's cold, I'm on my own, it's about to rain, I can't resist stopping at Burton on the way home for the plunge. I leave the mascot in the car as she's not always reliable if I'm on my own (I remember looking back from the water once, to check she wasn't mauling any children/stealing fishermen's sandwiches, and she'd got hold of my t-shirt and was tossing it into the air, letting it fly down the beach and then pouncing on it, much to the amusement of her audience). I change as quickly as I can and try not to catch anyone's eye as I prance down the beach, feeling ridiculous in my bikini. I have to run and dive just out of embarrassment. But it's FANTASTIC. So still and warm, I paddle along revelling in the perfection. I float for a bit listening to the silver tinging of what I think must be fish snapping their tails close by – surely not? I'm in for a while before backstroking slowly shoreward. A spaniel on the beach catches sight of me and literally does a double take, staring in unconcealed horror and bemusement, before standing square and barking furiously. It's owner "Tess! TESS!" is laughing but flustered, probably in sympathy with the confusion of her charge, so I dive underwater to do some pearl diving, and when I come up the spaniel has forgotten me and let itself be caught. I've got to get out though I can't bear to, and stand up to my shoulders for a bit, feeling dizzy and discombobulated from the floating.

I struggle back into my clothes, my trousers filled with grains of agonisingly scratchy sand and proudly stalk back to my car, where out of sight and to my shame, I have to put the heater on…..

Sunday 26th September 10am

Sunday 26^th September 10am

Post-swim yesterday, I spent most of the afternoon being rolled in a picnic blanket and pushed down a hill by my four year old niece, and then the early dawn hours re-reading Swallows and Amazons (my amazing swim with JJ to Wild Cat Island last week still glorious in my mind) so I'm well ready for an early dip. SW had texted last night to say that our special guest, KH, (who is far more than a guest really – a swimmer as brave and fearless as the best of them…us) is keen to swim at 10am. So at 9.40 I'm in the car with the mascot. It's another perfect day and since I'm early I walk the mascot up the cliff where as I stand looking down at the few fishermen, the very few ripples and the even fewer early walkers, the mascot thinks she spots SW and nearly takes a flying leap off the cliff edge. Back in the car park she does spot him and tears into his outstretched arms, nose to whiskery nose. KH appears – it's great to see her as I don't think we've swum together since May – we meet as the cold brings us together, flushing us out of independent burrows. We walk down to the cliff edge where the tide is back to normal, leaving a narrow passage twixt water and cliff, where we settle (mascot well hidden as we don't think she's allowed on this beach till October). The water feels cold to KH – she says it is significantly colder than last week when she was last in. I'm in first, slightly accidentally, as in the murky water you can't help stepping in rather deeper than you expect. I'm up to my waist and a yard behind me KH is only up to her ankles. We all splash out together and just 10 metres or so from the beach the water clears a lot and our toes are visible. It's utter bliss. KH reminds me that it was exactly this weekend, the last weekend in September, that we three had a sensational swim early on a Sunday morning – that swim, like this one, went down in history as pure perfection. KH does mutter something about a "dettol" smell, but SW reassures us it is definitely in the air, not the water, and a little further out it's gone and we've forgotten it. We spread out, only coming together to exchange the occasional remark. SW has his waterproof camera, and is struggling to hold it steady – but the results, as seen here, are sensational. Good work. When I glance back to check on his whereabouts, I see his feet shooting straight up into the air, as he dives down. We do a lot of underwater work – I'm a pearl diver like the Cheltenham and Gloucester ad. SW I suspect is Jacques Mayol in The Big Blue. I glide in from what seems like miles out, hardly able to bear the beginning of the chill in my fingertips. On the cliff top 30 feet above us, a line of walkers in macs, thick socks and boots stand, one of them pointing us out. A glow, not just from the desperate struggle of my heart to keep going (not really, it's only September!) fills me….

SW and KH are already out, though SW passes me as he runs back in, and before I've even picked up my towel, I've turned and dashed back, much to KH's amusement. The water feels so warm compared to the air! But time's up. We gossip as we change, taking turns to warm our hands on the willing mascot, who is resigned to our insanity. KH and SW are swapping recipes – we do a lot of that, swimming and eating seem to be inextricably linked. We quite often discuss what we are going to eat when we get home whilst still in the water. Then KH spots something – not, thank God, an eel or a shark, but a little black and white bird, paddling furiously along parallel to the shore. We all four get up for a closer look. SW thinks it's an little auk – not apparently just a Tolkein villain, but a beautiful and rare bird that visits Portland occasionally.

Then hard as it is we must go. We walk up the beach, hoping to swim later or tomorrow, though SW is away to work. I drive home, glowing, and the pleasure of the Archer's Omnibus on Radio 4 almost pushes me over the edge into delirium.

Saturday 25th September 1.30pm

Saturday 25th September 1.30pm

Having just returned from an amazing week of swimming three times a day in the Lake District (thanks especially to Daniel Start for some fantastic suggestions) I'm keen to get back into the sea. It's a perfect day, and after a few missed calls and texts between me and SW (lack of signal from his sheltered valley to my hill topped pocket is our greatest problem… I don't like to bring it up AGAIN, but there was an occasion in August when SW failed to show up at all and I and the mascot had to swim sadly alone in the almost PITCH DARK) we set a time. I jump in the car which still smells of wet tent and Kendal mint cake, and burn down to Burton Bradstock, which SW has chosen as West Bay can sometimes get a bit murky after heavy rain (don't ask). SW is already there and we're catch-up gossiping as we pick a spot, change, walk down to the sea and I'm up to my knees before we realise that it's an incredibly low tide. To the west, rocks are showing on the tide line that I have never seen before, and below our feet is a steep step onto a weedy, rocky shelf. Rather alarming, especially when I dive in and my hands get tangled up in octopussy weed. Yuk! But SW is much braver, concealing a not very graceful slip and plunge in with a dive, then ploughing ahead to where it's much clearer and more our usual standard. And so warm! Too warm, I shout as I join him and SW agrees – someone needs to turn on the cold tap. I launch into a long boring story about one of my lake district swims and when I finally draw it to a close ("and then we just jumped in!") we realise we are miles out. At West Bay, we use the end of the pier as our marker – without the pier at the Hive, we can confidently say we are simply MILES out. The few people on the beach are ants, and the cliff is a solid, straight wall. The water feels lovely, warm, soft and fairly clear. I can see my blue toes at least. We paddle about and then SW shows off his beautiful butterfly. He can only do it for about four seconds, but they are four glorious seconds. My attempt results in SW inhaling a mouthful of water in his hysterics and almost drowning. I'll have to practise alone.

The shore looks some way off, so we swim in – SW front crawl, MG backstroke. We plot our course before hand - I always think we are going to crash into each other, despite having the entire sea at our disposal! The weedy shelf is even more unattractive on close acquaintance and underwater it is murky and dark. SW gets out and then dives back in – the wind feels freezing, the water balmy. But it's time to get out. On the shore we compare colours – MG - purple knees, SW – white fingertips. Not bad. Later in the year, we have a bar on the beach – SW is in charge, though I must say the reliability is fairly indeterminate. It's opening hours are confusing. But the standard is always reliable – hot chocolate, delicious olive oil biscuits, parkin for the mascot, and I'm hoping (hinting) Battenberg cake (I realise afterwards that this is how Roger Deakin describes the cliffs at Burton "…all yellow and blue like the classic seaside posters on post-war railway platforms… the bright orange cliffs are layered like Battenberg cake" so it would be an appropriate snack). We change feeling comfortably chilled and stagger, no, SWAGGER, back down the beach, past Billy Bragg's house, where rock music is pulsing over the gentle beach. We part at the cars with promises to meet tomorrow.

introduction

The Swimmer as Hero

Introduction

As with cold water, I think it is best to dive straight in, rather than wasting time on lengthy introductions – what, in the water, SW and I would call "prancing" (accompanied by snorts of derision and much self-congratulation on our own non-prancing status). We are two sea bathers. But I'm not sure that does us justice. We are two hardy, intrepid, fearsomely brave wild swimmers; adventurers, never shaken by the terrifyingly wide spectrum of colours which our knees, toes and fingertips turn in plummeting temperatures; nor the bemusement of others, the warnings of imminent death, of certain incarceration in a mental institution; nor, most regularly, by winds, waves, snows and tempests, in our quest to fully submerge in the murky depths off West Dorset. That's not quite true. But we are certainly two friends who swim as early and as late into the year as possible, long after the tourists have gone home and the locals have tucked up with the Antiques Roadshow.

The leaves have fallen from the trees, the beach has returned to a haven for dog walkers snuggled in coats and hats, the nights have drawn in, and warm fires and toasted muffins are the evening's greatest thrill. But peer closer into the water, into the Autumnal, the Winter, the post-Christmas and the early Spring seas, nudge your companions and point incredulously, for out there somewhere, you will see us. This year we plan to swim all year round. As the Summer ends and, as SW says, "October, when we can start to feel quite brave" approaches, we thought we would log our Winter swims. Partly for posterity, partly to motivate ourselves, partly because we are tired of recounting our adventures to those who are not sufficiently impressed.

It's hard to explain to the uninitiated what appeals, and frankly addicts, the wild swimmer to cold water. Wild Swimming has become fashionable of late, and thanks to primarilly the heroic Roger Deakin, but also Charles Sprawson (from whose awesome book "Haunts of the Black Masseur; The Swimmer as Hero" the title of this blog is taken from), Kate Rew, Daniel Start, and the sterling members of the Outdoor Swimming Society, a lot has been said about the physical and mental benefits of the cold water plunge. But for SW and I, when it comes down to it, it's purely and simply for the fun of it – the endorphin rush, the sense of achievement, the joy of being in the water in a breathtakingly beautiful place, the prolonging of the summer, and a million other things combined. The swims are always full of hilarity – if the blog can capture even a drop of the jokes, witty banter and brilliant fun that we have, it will be worth reading. I can guarantee it.

And so, The Cast –

MG

SW

A Silver Lurcher known only as "The Mascot"

… with special appearances by KH, and other more infrequent guests; The Crew – family (not always supportive, but supportive of each other in their view of us as mentally unstable) loyal swimmers who'd be with us if they could (JJ, HL); The Location – West Dorset – all is set.

Picture the beach. The nights are cold, but the sun is out today, and just for today you can't believe the summer is really over. The sky is pale, blue, cloudless. Behind you, cliffs of golden sandstone. In front, silken water. Crunching sand beneath your toes. And all of that is yours. It's a perfect day for a swim.