Monday 11th October
It took me 23 years to realise that if I get in my car and drive for an hour, I can be in a wild swimming paradise;
Dartmoor. Five rivers have their source on
Dartmoor, bubbling up from beneath slabs of granite to flow across open moorland and through ancient woodland, trickling and gushing and roaring to the sea in a cacophony of laughter and tears, like a whole lifespan condensed to the charting of a water course. Each time I come, I fall a little bit deeper in love with this most extraordinary of National Parks, where on every hilltop the view waits like a present, and in every valley, a river sings. Roger Deakin shared this passion – in all three of his books, he writes with characteristic eloquence of the delights of
Dartmoor ("it is one of the last great wild places in England, one of the fifty royal parks that still retains it's integrity, one of the few places in England where you can stand alone and remote, quite out of earshot of any road"). When I eventually came here three years ago for a week long jaunt with JJ, it would have taken hearts of stone to prevent us falling under
Dartmoor's spell. The weather was beyond words; it was the end of July, and every single day we arose to boiling sun and blue skies. We swam three times a day in, I think, each of the five rivers, running down Tors to throw ourselves into pools at Dusk and Dawn, and had swims which cemented both of us as lifelong Wild Swimmers. I've never felt so well in my life as at the end of that week, and since then I've taken every opportunity to jump in the car and snap off a little bite sized chunk for the memory bank.
And now, joy of joys, there's PJ, at University in Exeter and dying for an escape from the rigours of her social life and TS Eliot. We've set a date and today's the day, dawning with cloudless skies in an orgy of perfection. The Mascot is still Sore in the Paw, so I've got the Mascottini, who makes a fairly good substitute, though as a co-pilot, she's not ideal. Every time I turn around to reverse, she leaps from her seat (sunny disposition leads her to suppose that I am turning around purely to tell her how much I love her) and covers me with kisses. When she's squeezed into the passenger seat, she chooses the most unexpected moments to suddenly stick her tongue into my ear, causing me to swerve across three lanes of traffic. PJ, when I spring her from Campus, and allow her to usurp the Mascottini from the passenger seat, manages to resist this temptation.
We're in high spirits as we flee Exeter to a cacophony of horns as I career around roundabouts (my driving seems to have taken a downward swerve – at one point an emergency stop deposits the Mascottini on the floor, and causes PJ to remark that she feels like she is in a ride at Alton Towers) and a colourful stream of untruths as PJ rings her tutor to tell him she needs to reschedule their meeting today to a time when they have more leisure for a LENGTHY DISCUSSION…
We're still trying to decide where to go as we eventually shake off Exeter – Cullverton Steps in the North East corner of the Moor, or the Sharrah Pool to the South West, when the road signs make our decision for us; we seem to be heading down the A30 straight to the Sharrah Pool. This suits me as I've been wanting to make this pilgrimage ever since JJ and I attempted to get there but were defeated by failing light, and had to plunge in where we stood. Kate Rew talks of it with mystical reverence, a 100m long pool on the Dart, buried deep in the woods below Mel Tor and marked on the OS map by the end of the footpath. Though it's so late in the season, I'm determined to at least see this legendary spot, and knowing me, I think I'll manage a dip. PJ is just as keen; she's a fledgling (minnow?) but fearless wild swimmer, telling me as we drive along how she swam two miles along the Wye in August, carried along by a current so strong that she couldn't stand, even when it was shallow enough to be able to. She's caught the bug and has packed her bathers along with a healthy dies of insanity. Just what's needed.
We pause only to hog a large lunch before weaving our way toward Holne. As we plunge down narrower and narrower lanes, my Spidey sense tingles as we approach the river. It's Holne Bridge, and for once I'm concentrating on the road ahead. So much so that I barely register the figure standing on the bridge parapet as we pass by. As PJ and I open our mouths at the same moment to say "look at…", he jumps. Slamming on the brakes, swerving into the hedge and, once recovered from a fit of hysterical laughter, we struggle out of the car and rush to the bridge. 30 feet below, a narrow gulley between shards of rock into the black water. To the right, clambering up the bank to where he has left his bicycle and his clothes, a boy. But before we have time to swoop on him with praise and admiration and proposals of marriage, he's gone. It's like a vision, a mystical vision laid on especially for us, two people here for the swimming getting a glimpse of wild swimming at its most raw and vivid. Were we two completely different people we would stand on the bridge ourselves to jump, but there is absolutely no question of that, so we're back in the car and on our way, but feeling buoyed up and inspired by the sight.
We park up in Holne and set off along the footpath, which starts in green field and then plunges into the valley to weave through the woods alongside the Dart. Our side of the river is cloaked in oaks; across the way, hills rise and loom over us. The Mascottini is in fine form, dashing ahead to check there are no tigers, and tearing back to tell us all about it. She helpfully attempts to push PJ into a stream which spills across our track by gently nudging her in the ankles with an enormous log which she is carrying in her mouth. PJ, teetering on one foot, is forced to clutch at the air for balance. But, mishaps aside, we skip through the woods, while below us, the river, like the Jabberwocky "wiffled through the bulgy woods and burbled as it came". VERY LOUD as PJ nervously points out (Kate Rew warns that the Sharrah Pool can be risky after heavy rain)….
After what seems a very long time, and after several false alarms, we climb a stile that signals the end of the National Trust path, and there ahead of us, it lies. There's no mistaking it – the Sharrah Pool. I see now why Kate Rew adopts her mystical tones; the pool lying as it does between rapids and upstream of that raucous, burbling river seems like an undreamt of paradise. It's still, deep and black, carved out of rock on either side, 100m long and 10m wide – a pool dreamt of by some celestial swimmer, and it's overwhelming perfection and splendour floors us for a moment.
And then a pair of upturned kayaks spill down the rapids and bob into the pool. It's hard to know what to do. Clearly, two kayakers have been spat out upstream and smashed their brains out on the rapids. A gory scene fills my mind. We should call the police. We should call the mountain rescue. But before we can call anyone, a figure appears on the bank and throws himself into the water to recapture his bolting mount. "There are some awesome rapids up there!" He shouts to us. My imagination is rebuked. It strikes me that what kayakers are looking for is generally the exact opposite of swimmers; boiling fast flowing water is as useless to us, as beautiful, empty, still pools are to them. But outdoor adventurers are united by their differences.
We have some banter with the kayakers before they disappear downstream and leave PJ and I no choice but to take the plunge. The moment has come. We balance on rocks to change and then PJ, in a moment of fearless recklessness, steps down into the water. She lets out a strangulated mewl of misery. And as I step in, I see why. The water is so cold it feels like my skin is being peeled away from the flesh. It's hard to believe that water like this can still be flowing smilingly along. But there's no way out and PJ, terrifyingly quickly, has stepped down and with a "I've got to do it, I've just got to do it" is sliding away from me in a deathly silence. I have to follow her. I cannot put the feeling into words. I couldn't at the time, opening and shutting my mouth in a paralysis of silence. But once through the pain threshold, as always, I'm ok. My body heat steps up to the mark and curls around me, so suddenly where I was dying, now I am warm. But I can't relax, I know how cold it was and I'm frightened that this warmth is the precursor of something else – cramp, heart attack, hyperthermia. PJ, after a fearless start has gone for the plunge approach, submerging and then climbing out like a Russian bather who has cracked the ice with his fist. There she stands, atop a rock, shivering but glowing with the joy of having done it. I'm persevering, ploughing across the slightly alarming current to climb out the other side, before submerging and swimming back across. Submerging may have been an area. Brain freeze grips my skull so that for a moment I am blinded. But I just have time to see the black rocks below, in the coca cola peaty water. The pool is not as bottomless as it appears, and when I return next year I am going to pearl dive up its length and explore every cranny. But today that is the shortcut to an early grave. The cold and the deep, deep concern of the Mascottini, who has had a complete sense of humour failure and is tearing up and down the bank barking and crying, urge me out and I rise like Poseidon to stand on a rock, my skin lobster red and burning. But I feel A M A Z I N G. It's always, always worth it.
I hurry to dress, knowing you have to harness this warmth and preserve it beneath clothes. It's only in tying my shoelaces that the shivering impedes me. PJ is doing star jumps, assisted by the Mascottini, and as soon as I'm dressed we set off at a brisk trot. As a result I never really feel that spine clenching cold that I was so frightened of. PJ, though feeling peculiar, is warming up too and we tear through the wood to burst into sunshine in half the time it took to get here. In no time at all, we are sitting at a table loaded with scones and clotted cream. Before you've time to say "heroes".
A fittingly blissful conclusion to our already blissful day. We drive through the fading light across the moor, the Tors cast in gleaming gold, mentally marking potential walks and exploration for the coming months. And on every bridge – potential swims. For next season!
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Hove, 4.30pm
A post college walk west for variety led to Hove and a chance to swim on the other side of the piers. The buildings are grander, the esplanade is wider and it definitely all feels a bit more genteel. A perfect mid autumn day with blue skies, warm sun, gentle winds and a calm sea.
The large pebbles on the narrow beach are hard underfoot and cause much stumbling so one cannot look cool, even in bright red shorts. A calm sea and almost clear water beckons (a few worrying floaters, best not to look too closely). Swimming out I reach a group of gulls bobbing on the water. My aquatic approach seems to leave them unfazed and they remain in place with just a few glances in my direction until I get close enough to touch them. Then all at once they wheel away, almost silently and re-settle a few yards off, safely out of reach again.
SW
