Burton Bradstock. Sunday 27th March, 3pm

MG

I had hoped to have a special entry from my Sunday audience, FHH, but instead she has sent the awesome picture story you see above. The words to accompany it will be brief. Since it is now taking SW and I approx one week to log our swims, the end of the blog may be nigh, which is as it should be; the end of this years Winter Swimming Season is definitely nigh. Although saying that, I had my first swim last year on the 12^th April and barely made it through alive, so all things are relative.

It was a grey hazy day, but hot enough that I was determined to swim and dragged the visiting FHH down to the beach. Conditions were far from perfect with a crowded beach (as we walked over the sand bank it was SO hot that I half expected to see SOMEONE ELSE IN THE WATER… but not yet, phew) and churning waves from a still sea, which I think must be caused by unusually high tides at the moment. Again, the shelf was alarmingly steep and coming out I was practically clambering up a vertical bank a few feet in. However I unwillingly changed, stumbled in and struck out towards France, leaving my audience dog watching and anxiously chroniciling. I hadn't been feeling it at all, and my first few strokes were fairly unpleasant through grey water with a strong unattractive smell. But a bit further out, the water cleared and through the heat haze I could see the yellowy cliffs while the crowds of gaping onlookers were only a blur, which is how I like it. I was able to go much further than for a while which is brilliant, and shades of things to come in just a few more weeks as Spring really hits (our favourite slogan of the summer months is "we're definitely level with the end of the pier now" which is a claim always refuted by our audience, even tho we ARE).

As I came ashore, FHH approached and did some paddling – rather pleasingly, she described the burning agony into which this plunged her untrained feet, leaving her even fuller of admiration for my uncomplaining bravery and fortitude. But to me, compared to what we have been through this winter, being able to lie on the beach in a damp swimming costume without 15 cashmere jumpers, a flask of hot chocolate or an attack of uncontrollable hyperthermia inspired giggles, does not feel particularly brave. But it does feel lovely.