Wild Swimming Spain

With much excitement do I reactivate my humble blog to bring you a bookish post on 'Wild Swimming Spain' [fanfare]! Books and swimming - what's not to like?!

It's by John Weller (aka my dear and clever friend Poolside Percy, who I know through The Swimmer and has regularly featured on this blog) and his most excellent, half-Spanish co-author, Lola Culsan.

OK so owing largely to my poor time-keeping and organisational skills the book has already been reviewed by so many august organs (eg the Guardian and H2Open Magazine) that I've been scooped more times than a tub of tutti frutti.

Hot off the press

But here nevertheless is my take - including exclusive report of...

The book launch

This took place one Thursday evening in April, at the ever pleasing Stanfords book and map shop in Covent Garden.





















I arrived unfashionably early as is my wont, affording ample time to partake of a complimentary glass of Rioja and reserve a row of seats with my swim bag and towel as though at a luxury resort, before tracking down nervous John/Percy for a spot of encouragement and light pre-heckling.

Some of the usual Icicle suspects were in evidence, including Liz who deftly insinuated herself between the projector and an antique mahogany drinks cabinet to take up her seat.





















A touching array of Percy's family, including his mother, son Danny and an assortment of sisters, were also in attendance.

I'm quite a fan of the lecture format under most circs, and one about wild swimming delivered by well-loved friends is about as good as it gets. Percy began his part of the talk with tales of learning to swim at some baths in North London - "You could get a Wagon Wheel in the cafe afterwards but otherwise the 70s were a bit shit as I recall." Apparently it solved the problem of having only a tin bath in the kitchen at home.

Mini Percy at Parli Hill lido in the 70s

Poolside Percy and Lola took turns to recount the journey they embarked upon last summer to create the book - amazingly covering 3,500 km in their 20-year-old camper van over 6 weeks, and researching all the swimming spots themselves (through a clever combo of Google maps and speaking to locals), with Percy as photographer extraordinaire to boot.

Of the many anecdotes, for some reason the one that's stuck most is the tale of the sleeping bag that escaped from the van and went for its own wild swim one night.

Swim Lola Swim

The book is all about ditching the bland hot beaches for secluded and verdant inland swims in rivers, lakes and waterfalls. And a top tip from the  horse's mouth: if a swim spot seems crowded, head a couple of hundred metres upstream and you'll probably have the place to yourself.

I won't go into a detailed description of the book's many and varied swims, which of course all look mouth watering, but top of my wish list would be:

• pretty much the whole region of Galicia - known as 'el pais de los mil rios' or 'the country of a thousand rivers', which sounds like a hundred heavens to me. It includes the Rio Tambre, "a place to release your inner otter." I like to think my inner otter is just below the surface, leaving a trail of bubbles
• Lago Ubales in the Asturias region, a glacial mountain lake that is a natural infinity pool egad!
• the Pantano Del Porma reservoir, with its designated nudist swimming spots and "stunning views across the lake", presumably whichever way you're looking
• Embalse de Mediano in the Aragon Highlands, which still contains a church tower from when the village was flooded. At high water you can swim through the open belfry!

And Percy's favourite? A wide sweeping bend in the River Mino in Galicia, where "you can swim forever."

Interspersed with all the swimming infos are little snippets of Spanish customs and folklore, such as the traditional Cabrales blue cheese served with 'sidra' (cider) poured from head height in Asturias, as well as fragments of Spanish poetry on a watery theme, highbrow literary references (Laurie Lee - Sidra with Rosie?) and a touching photo of a goat on p.32.

The book also contains a brilliant Spanish swimming phrases/glossary section, so you can ask such useful questions as "Where is the river/waterfall/pool/lake/reservoir?" and "Where is the nicest section for swimming?" helping you to avoid "la molina/presa" (the mill/weir) and generally make the most of "natacion en la naturaleza"!

Congratulations John and Lola!

Wild Swimming Spain costs £15.99 and is published by Wild Things Publishing www.wildswimspain.co.uk/

The Swimmer Cambridge

After a successful winter of monthly swim-run adventures from London's head to toe with The Swimmer, the latest installment heralded the start of the summer school trips - this time to the pleasant environs of Cambridge, where we'd had a most jolly of jollies almost exactly a year ago.

In contrast to the increasingly large London contingents, this was a more intimate affair of 12, made up almost entirely of Brockwell Icicles - hooray - including a rare appearance from chief mischief maker Sara, plus of course the inimitable John of The North - hoorah!

All aboard the 08h15 from Kings X platform 4...

Alighting in Cam we were greeted by Swimmer regular (not to mention PHISH relayer) Simon, kindly providing support car services for the day. So bags in the boot and off we trot for a mile or so to the hallowed river spot of Newnham Riverbank Club, a NAKED swimming club <prudish gasp> which you access by an unobtrusive wooden door at the end of a grassy path tucked away at the side of a field.

Emerging into a little wooded area just within the door, we were relieved to see the blackboard proclaiming balmy water temps (in view of the long swim we had planned for later).

Phewf

Past a little shed and out to the verdant river bank, handily divided into sort of changing areas by a series of low (and not particularly dense) hedges, the grass cool and springy underfoot like a carpet. As the five of us girls retired to a secluded spot to change for the first swim, we seemed to arrive as if with one mind upon the excellent idea of embracing the club values and leaving swimming costumes behind.

Hee hee

Barely (haha) able to contain our glee, we threw caution and clothes to the wind and made a dash for the river bearing only our Swimmer hats, entering the water by a handy set of steps a little along from where the boys were changing and partially screened by some nearby foliage. You could almost hear the gasp from the boys' camp as they realised "the girls are naked!" and then rapid retreat and conferring about how they would respond to this opening gambit. By this time we were safely submerged and having the highest of high times among the gorgeous silky water.

20 seconds later we were treated to the most hilarious nude dive show in single file (us girls raising a hearty cheer each time a luminous white buttock arced across the sky), followed by some truly shameless but commendably synchronous surface dives with inevitable effect of new potatoes bobbing to the surface of the pan. Such madness, such joy - a swim I will never forget.

Those of a prudish disposition look away now... Otherwise guess who?!

Ne tush pas

After all this excitement we were clearly in need of sustenance. So with clothes (sadly) back on and a spring in the step of one and all, we set off for the 1.5 miles along the river to Grantchester Orchard tea garden for enormous warm scones and a pot of the good stuff.

We discussed optimal methods for dealing with irate swans having spotted a nesting pair on the way down, who can apparently get a bit touchy this time of year. Will advocated the waving-arms-in-the-air and making-yourself-look-as-big-as-possible method, but Sara and I decided keeping your arms out of sight would probably be prudent, as that's what they like to break isn't it? 

Mad as a hatter

With light rain falling outside and a somewhat autumnal feel to the air, an element of collective procrastination set in as were contemplated the 45-minute swim back downstream to the swimming club, which last year had proved rather challenging in the final minutes as shivers set in.

Nothing for it but to man up and get changed in the gravelly carpark (naturally) - all of us coveting the one wetsuit of the party, brought by prudent Sarah (not to be confused with miscreant Sara) - before a quick dash across a cricket pitch and to the river once me we go. Marcus was very, very keen to enter at precisely the same spot as last year but an inopportunely placed swan had other ideas, and soon made it clear that we would just have to settle for a few yards downstream.

Off we go, the intrepid 12, the river and surroundings mostly empty of people on this grey Saturday morning, beautifully peaceful and sort of conspirationally cosy down here below land level. I settle into a steady front crawl, admiring and occasionally crashing into the surroundings, smiling to myself when I turn to breathe and find a cow perfectly silhouetted on the bank. Magic.

I'm somewhere in the middle of the pack. Rounding a bend I sense something is amiss and look up. Shock horror! For as we had feared the male swan is seething mad, puffed up as big as a house, gigantic and terrible, bearing down like a thunderbolt on little wetsuit-clad Sarah even as she tries to swim away. Panic and mayhem! Jonathan is already on the riverbank having encountered the swan before the rest of us caught up, Liz is trying to extract herself from the feathery fray and god bless Will as he takes on the adversary and puts his arm-waving theory to the test. The swan, while not exactly cowed, is given pause - time enough for all of us to make a speedy exit and regroup on the bank, shaken but no arms broken. Yowzers!

Knowing when to admit defeat, we scampered along the path in dripping togs and sploshed back in at a safe distance, soon arriving at our destination with a (misplaced?) sense of triumph.

Another gentle jog for a couple of miles along the scenic 'backs', then last swim at the rather excellent Jesus Green Lido, which is long (100 yards) and narrow to mimic the nearby river, swan-free and sunny. Result!

  

DING DING - LUNCHTIME! Here comes the sun, here comes the beer...
Epic scotch egg for Marcus - good enough to make a grown man weep apparently:

John and Marc share a special moment

And good god but if it isn't WORLD GIN DAY!! I'll drink to that:

After all of which you could have knocked me down with a feather.

17 go wild (swimming) in Dorset

Oh my goodness! Last weekend saw an epic mass exodus of SEVENTEEN Brockwell Icicles down to Litton Cheney in Dorset to take over an entire youth hostel for two days of wild swimming, all masterminded by the non-evil genius that is Fran (the brains behind a recent trip to Pells Pool). Brockwell lido didn't know where the hell everyone had gone, and Dorset didn't know what was about to hit it.

It began the way of all good adventures - viz. getting up at 5.45am on a Saturday. Fortunately our Driver for the morning - the ever accommodating Noelene - came to collect me from my very door, and with Peter and Talya as fellow passengers, the 4-hour journey positively flew by. We even found time to browse the winter collection of the legendary Fleet service station:

Peter makes a rash purchase

We convened joyously with the others at a campsite by Durdle Door, stopping to admire the unique signage...

What more could you want?

 ... and dove-tailing beautifully with Sara, hot off the press from a recent jaunt to Madeira. Giddy with excitement we began the descent to sea swim #1.

If you're not familiar with what a durdled door looks like, this is what I'm talking about:

© Random Dog

Changing on the beach was a relatively civilised affair (relative to all subsequent such occasions) thanks to a handy outcropping of rock:

Metamorphic facilities

Togs, hat, goggs, and before you could say "Durdle Door" all 17 of us were bobbing along in a deliciously clear and blessedly warm (say 17 degrees) sea like so many freshly podded peas, making a beeline for the open Door. Buoyed by the salt and peer support, we took on the surge and crash of waves coming at us through the 'tunnel' to pass under the looming craggy arch - one of the most exhilarating and surreal paths I've ever swum. I hope this video gives at least a bit of a flavour:

For swim #2 we simply shoed the feet and scampered up and over a hill to a Seychelles-style bay on the other side, where the water had an amazing white glow (and unfortunate sulphurous whiff at close quarters) from the surrounding rock.

All for one...

And one for all!

More lovely swims (interspersed with occasional panic on my part amongst the terrifying weeds), followed by some less dignified changing-under-towel motions, piles of cake and lashings of Rachel's amazing licorice and mint tea (and then something stronger...)

Candy under full sail

The correct cake-cutting stance

Multitasking

Attention all sipping

"Have YOU got my whisky?"

Even Martin, who started in a wetsuit, soon learnt the error of his ways:

Before

After

Just time for an aerobics class led by top coach Alfonso, photographed by the above Martin (thanks Martin!), to get the blood flowing and the girls giggling:

A new low for all

A range of abilities

Brockwell Inmates on day release

For swim #3 in the afternoon we picked another beauty - Worbarrow Bay. But what's this stinging sensation spreading down my right arm...now my left? Jellyfish jeopardy! Only little 'uns though, just enough for a thrill.

(And for those jellyfish sceptics - Talya I'm looking at you - might I refer you to a recent article by that august organ, Wessex FM News, reporting "A number of jelly fish have been spotted off the Dorset coast following the recent heat wave," hem hem. Also worth noting that Wildlife Trust Officer Julie states "we do get quite excited when the jelly fish come around because you never know what could be following them." Well Julie, I hope we did not disappoint.)

 A few top pics of Worbarrow Bay from Martin again (I got distracted by swimming):

Instinctively forming an orderly queue..?!

Sea mist and jellyfish - what's not to like?

Alfonso's award-winning dive technique is sabotaged!

Entirely surrounded by swimmers!

Here Fran deploys her magnificent jacket-wot-is-also-a-towel-wot-is-also-a-changing-cubicle to great effect and the unbridled envy of all; Santa, if you're reading, this is what I would like for Christmas please:

Dignity at all times

I think now might be an appropriate juncture to get out of the water for a rest and have a little comic relief courtesy of the Youth Hostel Association. Ours was a cosy place to call home for the weekend (modelled beautifully below by Rosie), complete with massive open-plan living area, fully equipped kitchen and six dorms with the all important bunk beds...

A stylish pose

There's really nothing like trying to make up your bunk bed with drastically tight-fitting sheets in a dorm with three other girls to awake some ingrained, primeval capacity for sustained and uncontrolled giggling (David, watch video at your peril):

Down with skool

Just time for a few pre-dinner drinks courtesy of a seemingly coronated Sara, before a hop and a skip to the pub next door for dinner.

Have some madeira m'dear

A night cap or two au hostel, followed by enough giggling in the dorm to collapse both bunk beds, Sara zooming up and down the ladder with commendable alacrity, scattering pine cones and hairbrushes under the duvets of others... at last, lights out, sleeps.

Up at 7.30 Sunday morning for sea swim #4 - the wonderful West Bay. Here, Sara, Candy, Noelene, Marianne and Miranda kick off proceedings with a Chariots Of Fire-style dash to splash, followed by an unscheduled mouthful of salt water for Peretz:

West Baywatch babes

 Happy and refreshed we returned to the hostel for a hearty breakfast...

...featuring the much anticipated, lovingly constructed Peretz omelette:

Well done if you've made it this far! All that remains is our fifth and final splash for the weekend - this time a river swim for a bit of a sea change. Here things took on a notably chillier edge, causing quite a ripple amongst us so-called 'hardy' 'winter swimmers'. But the water was lovely and light and clean, and the surrounding grassy banks and nearby wooden footbridge made for a hushed and intimate setting (especially if you ignored the prowling swans asserting themselves in your peripheral vision).

 

Hang on where did Candy go?

Brockwell Icicles Forever!!

Just durdle do it