Friday 8th October, 11am

My legs are feeling like someone has replaced the muscles with poorly set (Vegetarian) gelatine, due to my week struggling not to succumb to the plague. I’ve complained long enough (especially since Rebecca Eddlington has just won gold at the Commonwealth Games under much worse conditions…) so SW and I make a plan to meet at West Bay at 11am. Although KH can’t make it today, she lives nearest the sea and so has helpfully contributed a weather report; very windy and grey. So we think we will try West Bay and if it is too rough there, we’ll go further afield. SW has thought of a beach which may be sheltered in windy conditions, which we are keeping up our sleeve. But once at West Bay, the sea looks fine – pretty choppy, but safely so, and the beach itself is glorious – deserted, apart from a few dog walkers, and the cliffs at their ramshackle best against a darkening sky. We walk quite a long way down, only pausing to examine what looks like sea kale growing out of the cliff all the way down a seam. As we change, an enormous dog appears on the horizon, and Mascot, hackles raised, goes off to stake her claim over us, and any bits of old parkin, cheese rind or biscuits we might have about our persons (we have no illusions about that) but instantly regrets it and turns tail as the enormous dog galumphs up to her and then to us, but it’s very endearing, stamping it’s enormous paws all over everyone and the collapsing to be scratched.

Once the owner has reclaimed his giant, SW and I head down to the water which, I must admit, feels bracing. We do some prancing. SW thinks it is colder than Brighton. But with the memorable words “Be brave for the blog!” SW has disappeared into the murk, and I plunge after him. Although “refreshing” for a few seconds, I soon feel my own body heat wrapping around me – I try to explain this to SW but my explanation in terms of the-skin-as-a-built-in-wetsuit are lost in translation, partly because the wind whips away our words and the waves bury them in a tumult of crashing and thundering. As well as that, we are slightly separated, so as I rise on a peak, he disappears in a trough, rendering conversation rather taxing. But it’s great – the sky is black and violet and blue, and the Chesil Beach is shimmering. The tiny mascot looks lonely on the expanse of sand, and below us, our feet have disappeared in the murky waves. SW shouts something about underwater, and when I go under it’s completely disorientating, so dark you don’t know if you are up or down and the light from the surface only stabs through the top inch. But it feels warm and lovely and we’re in for ages – when we work it out afterwards we think it must be nigh on 40 minutes, though that seems extreme, even for us.

I’m out first, greeted by the over-enthusiastic bouncing of the mascot, who is always relieved when we make it out alive. Despite the advancement of the swimming season, the bar seems to be closed, but getting dressed quickly in lots of layers is almost as good as a thermos of hot chocolate. For various complicated reasons, SW has only got a towel the size of a flannel and is struggling to change without total exposure, which provides some comedy. Changing on the beach will be enough for a whole blog entry later in the season – the colder it is, the more complicated it becomes with layers and layers of mad, bag-lady outfits.

We’re feeling warm, but SW’s hands are horrifying; fingertips completely white and knuckles purple and black as though stained with plum juice. I’m normally the first to admire this mark of triumph, but I think this is worse than in previous years and urge him to wear the wetsuit gloves which he bought last year. But he brushes aside my concerns, and as we part (by which time it is pouring with rain) we have high hopes for another swim tomorrow.


MG