8th July 2024
Better to swim in a shoal
They’ve stopped mowing the verges. Country lanes have become rural idylls, bordered by deliciously plump arrangements of tall tufty grass decorated with gentle purple mallow, low down poppy, white oxeye daisy highlights and high vis arrangements of dastardly ragwort.
The untrimmed hedges behind and above are indiscriminate shades of green. They are reaching ever upward with all the rain, as if they’re part of a happy contest to see who’ll be the tallest.
The beautiful edges are wildlife corridors, the Wildlife Trusts’ Nature Recovery Network campaign which urges that the verges are left uncut until the end of summer when the butterflies have been, flowers seeded, birds safely hatched, and the small creatures burrowed home.
Perhaps then, I’ll spot the surprise tractors or the fat chestnut horses that are trotting along hidden from view around a particularly beautiful corner.
It was Sunday and I was heading to the sea by myself at just after six. A habit, not sure if it’s a good one, to get a swim in early, feel the benefit so that I can get on with my day. (Or feel exhausted, go back to bed with little done.)
One magpie flutters in front of me. Two hundred yards, another magpie. Joy. Another two hundred yards and what must have been a nestful, half a dozen bright white and black, small and extra bouncy cleaning up a dead something in the middle of the road. Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.
An omen.
The sea looked dark and fitful, although the sun had dropped a patch of thick silver close to the horizon, the rest of the sea was sharp-edged flint with dirty earth-coloured bubbles riding on many of the waves, frequently a sign that a part of a sandy cliff has fallen in and is in the process of being redistributed.
The waves weren’t scary-looking like they had been on Saturday, when I’d stood in the cold wind looking and looking again and watching some more, splashed to my knees before deciding to walk away. Too much pull, too much swell. If I’d been with someone, I may have gone in. Too much alone.
Sunday, not so bad. The angry sea had scooped out a huge curved dip in the sand down to the water’s edge. Not pretty. The soak made it look dark and it was steep enough to be tricky to navigate.
Although I could feel the sun when swimming, and the horizon was full of hope and brightness, when I turned in the water to look west, there was a significant cloud over the houses and beyond.
I slipped when coming out, waited for the next wave to push me up the beach, which it did, soaking me to the neck. An invigorating morning swim but not one that I’ll remember for its beauty.
Thankfully, there was a dry hand to pull me over the final part the sand scoop when I felt battered by falling.
Last Friday, the sea was gentler and many of the gang were back. The Canadian delightedly dipped in the water, the Boatbuilder and the Lawyer back from a Dutch regatta.
It was a morning for celebration but the stiff wind and the beach temperature tempered the mood. Lovely to see everyone, happy results, but the south westerly didn’t encourage long chats on the beach.
There were however hands in the water, hands to help if you got into trouble. Hands to get you up when you fell down. It’s better to be part of a shoal.
