MG
We plan a last minute mini-break, a jaunt to Brighton to meet SW and take the only chance to swim that our distance has allowed this month (I seem to be in London semi-permanently, he in Brighton). I call up JJ and suggest she join. Not batting an eyelash at the prospect of a seven hour train journey from Norfolk to London to Brighton and back again for what, let’s be honest, is likely to be 30 seconds in the 5 degree water, she agrees with alacrity. That’s dedication. The foundations are laid. Sharing my room with JJ the night before the expedition, her voice pipes up in the small hours. “It can’t be as cold as that river, surely?” Me “which river?” JJ “any of them?”. It’s not boding well, but despite trepidation the morning dawns and after a hearty breakfast, we get ourselves and our mountains of jumpers, towels and snacks on to a train and down to the coast.
Brighton is looking battered and dingy, the pier an unsightly tangle, but somehow, despite these things, it can’t shake off it’s down market, London-on-holiday appeal. We cower by the entrance to the pier waiting for SW, chip fat and frying odours permeating our every pore. SW approaches looking surprisingly cheerful, and fond greetings and introductions are exchanged – he and JJ have never met, in the three years of this blog! We clamber down to the side of the pier which SW says is least dirty and begin stripping off layers before there can be any faltering. Small talk is discouraged by me. Then the approach! It really does feel cold to me this time, especially without boots, and the brown slapping waves in the creepy shadow of the pier are not helping. But when has a little bit of terror stopped me? I’m in and away, gritted teeth and stolen breath. We all make a brief foray, JJ quite staggeringly brave as she hasn’t been in since November, and emerge before I lose my toes to stand in the shadows gasping. Then another little dip; this time I manage some backstroke and two dips under which causes a spectacular brain freeze. That’s quite enough of that I think, staggering back over the agonising pebbles and collapsing on to my towel. But we’ve done it! And as the feeling comes back, the familiar high dawns and we stuff ourselves with ginger cake and cinnamon hot chocolate with alacrity, laughing at our own jokes without shame. This blog should be called Laughing at our Own Jokes. The weight of the world is lifted off our shoulders by those four minutes in the water, it’s quite extraordinary.
SW is off back to class having pointed us towards the shops, and basked in the warm air emanating from Jack Wills, around which we cluster like kittens to a fire. JJ and I attempt to shop, but after the high comes a slump which leaves us prone in a cafe for several hours before we mange to peel ourselves from Brighton and slumber back to London. I am zonked, but in a lovely, content way.
Good work team! A united cold plunge in the name of the blog. Heroes indeed.
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