We could see shingle and sand beneath the water

11th September 2023

This morning’s swim felt like salt water therapy. An exclusive spa experience that had been specifically designed to soothe sore legs and scorched shoulders and to provide a weightless lift that takes the pressure off any self-supporting body.

The water was balm. An hour away from high tide, a cool-feeling nineteen degrees and a clear view to the bottom. Delightfully and unusually us and our feet moving over it.

We’ve had a very light south westerly breeze but essentially, nothing has moved. The sea hasn’t been churned up or coloured brown with washed-in bits of cliff and field, there has been no change to spoil its clear glass top. The sea channels energy on a day like today. Lose attention and you will be pulled, of course, but there’s no active energy-sapping fight against wind or tide.

The water’s surface is gunmetal with a deep pool of glittering silver just in front of the horizon. This enchanted land separates the sea from the sky with a light that isn’t visible anywhere else. The cloud might at another time appear looming, but this morning it provided a thick dark purple cotton wool insulation protecting us from the climate-blast ambush waiting overhead.

On the beach, the shingle tipped into a wide border of sand which held on to the foot print and running kid skids from a weekend that had been packed with swimmers. At eight this morning the weather was blissfully dull, the cool grey of autumn making a valiant early stand before being overcome once again by calamitous and exhausting heat.

The past weekend was the hottest on record for September with temperatures persistently over thirty degrees, pavements as packed as July, weary waiters, and beaches dotted with swimmers and sitters as far as the eye could see. A full coastal invasion from the land, people, people, ice creams, cans and chips, people and dogs, dogs, dogs.

This morning, our beach was empty. It felt like we were back in a quieter family time. We miss our Canadian and boat-builder, away on separate but equally quirky adventures. Rupert’s Dad and our friend with the visor swim in fittingly.

It’s a quiet swim, no paddle boards or playthings; Rupert doesn’t slip his lead (despite clearly bursting to) and there is only gentle Monday chat. Even the big gulls and kittiwakes seem to be tired of shouting.

Migrating Canada geese fly over us in a perfect V formation.