6:15 am

The first light of day. Bryher appears suspended between night and day, the glowing, misted pale peach of the rising sun and the cool silver of the fading moon. For a few magical moments they sit and face each other, the two giants of the sky, each having to give way to the other.

The sea is calm but gently flurried by the cool morning breeze. As I sit quietly on the rocks at Green Bay, the golden orb of light breaks across the Tresco horizon and the sea turns to liquid gold.

I can’t swim for long as the busy day lays ahead, packed lunches, the school run, animals to feed and vegetables to plant. However, this quick little piece of solitary beauty is the best way to start the day. I swim a few short lengths and dive down below the metallic coloured surface into the cool pale blue. As I rise up following the silver bubbles of my breath, the surface above me glitters gold and silver in the light. A few seconds floating on my back bathed in the early morning light and silence.

It’s interesting how many people comment on the silence Bryher provides. They say they can’t hear anything, apart from the sea and the birds. There is never total silence, nature is noisy, but those noises don’t bombard our minds as human made noises often do, and so to many, trying to escape to silence, nature is peaceful and healing.

So I lie in the “silence” of calling birds, moving water, gentle breeze, and breathe deep the peace.

I reluctantly leave this world and head back to the farm. The sun is warm on my back and a beautiful shadow follows me up the beach. I walk barefoot back through the farm, the wet grass sticking to my feet, past the little colony of solitary bees who remain buried in their overnight homes, and into the bustle of home, ready for whatever the day brings.

Enjoy your moments of silence.

We are rising earlier now as the night surrenders to daylight, the blinds remain open and we wake naturally with the dawn. So by 9 am the animals are fed and watered, vegetables picked and on the stall, the children are fed with fluffy pancakes, and I am on my way for a quick swim. There is a chilly north easterly wind so I head to Rushy bay, where the dunes will shelter me.  The last time I swam at Rushy was when storm Freya was in full force and the water was wild and exhilarating. What a contrast to today’s calm surface, barely a ripple, the grey green sea laps ever so gently onto the powder soft sand. The sun, although up there behind the clouds, hasn’t yet managed to break through, and the turquoise blue sparkle that I yearn to see, remains hidden in the grey.

Footprints betray a world of creatures that have, whilst the world has been sleeping, enjoyed the beach. Gulls webbed feet, rats paw tracks and sand hopper holes mark the sand. In the distance a fishing boat motors between lobster pots, laying them down from Samson to White island and then down towards Droppy Nose Point. From my watery world I can see the seal and the elephant, sculpted in granite by the wind and waves, dark against the lightening horizon. The water is hazy and dull, the seabed and chopped seaweed stirred up from the strong tides. It is lusciously calm and silky soft, and I can swim in peaceful coolness. The tide ebbs quickly and I can feel the tug of water out to sea, so I swim lengths parallel to the beach. Two shags glide in flight above my head, their black streamline bodies are so pleasing to the eye. Behind me, as I float, looking back towards land, the gorse clad Samson Hill rises up, Works Point jutting out towards the south, and behind me, the vast sea and sky stretch as far as the eye can see.

Rushy Bay is the sort of place you could sit and while away the hours, watching the fluid colours of the sea, an abundance of seabirds, the granite rocks and the changing light. Tuck yourself down amongst the dunes and rushes and stop in silent peace, let the beauty seep into your bones.

But out of the sea I must go, no time to stop and stare today, for it is the island spring clean, when islander and visitor alike, armed with bags and trailers collect any rubbish that has been washed up in the winter storms. Tidying the island for the season ahead.

Although now clouding over, today has had the feel of a Scillonian summers day. Expansive skies of Wedgewood blue, large cumulus clouds, sunshine that warms the soul, air that clears the mind. Pollinators of all kinds are busy flying between echiums, clover, bluebells the many more types of flora on Bryher.

Spring Equinox

The channel basks in the sun, the sea disappeared, to who knows where. No doubt the sea creatures are burying themselves into the cool, damp sand, or hiding under rocks and seaweed from the heat and the scavenging gulls.

Dotted like little ants, people wander in this miraculous land between Tresco and Bryher, heads down, searching for treasures of nature; starfish, squat lobster, shanny, anemone and crab.

It is quite a magical experience to walk the channel, looking back towards Bryher from a new perspective, knowing that in a few hours’ time you would be submerged in nearly six metres of seawater.

This is my first low tide swim. Crazy I know, but I always tend to prefer to swim at high tide. The advantage of high tide is the water is much nearer, also the current not so strong away from the main tidal channels. However, it is a new experience that I relish, so, leaving my clothes and book at the top of the beach I walk the 200 feet down across the sand and clay-like silt towards the sea. Rivulets run along with me. Piles of worm casts lay heaped and curled upon the flats of sand. Strewn seaweed, the tiniest of periwinkles, barely recognizable lumps of rusted, molten looking iron. If you sit and listen carefully, you can hear the sound of air and seawater popping and squirting from the bladder wrack.

Rows of mooring buoys sit, their rusted chains heavy on the ground. It’s about another 100 feet of wading in knee deep water, feet squelching in the slimy seabed, soft sea lettuce and codium wrapping around my feet. Once I start to swim, the water remains shallow, only a few feet deep and I can see the current dragging the seaweed in the incoming tide. Hundreds of daisy anemones are dotted in the sand as if it were covered in leopard spots. Great tendrils of kelp flow, alive and waving like squid tentacles. A huge sandbank mid channel creates the feeling of being in a wonderful blue glass lagoon, with sand in front and behind me.

I could swim for hours and get nowhere, just static in the tide. When I stop the effort of the swim I am swept along at great speed, as if on a roller coaster ride, but can easily paddle my way to the edge and wade back out onto dry land. The buoys that lay heavy on the sand now float and bounce on the rising waters.  

The first grey, dawning light, slowly brightening the horizon from the east behind Tresco. As I walk around the pool, glass-like, the only ripples from the swan gliding gently, the sky to the west holds its air of sleepy darkness. The cows bellow their mellow greeting, barely visible, their rich red colour hidden against the damp old bracken. Silver misted dew lays heavy on their backs and droplets of water cling to their curly coats. No popplestone wave this morning, it is simply calm, quiet, meditative. Apart from the animals I feel like I could be the only being on this island.

My work on the farm today includes planting carrot seeds, 17,000 of them. The only sounds as I stride up and down the field are the scratch and squeak of the wheel on my seed planter and the constant trill of birdcall summoning the spring warmth. The soil is dark, soft and deep. It sticks to the wheel making it hard to push and clods fix themselves to my boots. A speckled bellied thrush joins me to feast on worms and grubs, disturbed from their earthy home.

 There is no sun to warm my back, although the air is heavy and humid. The thick blanket of grey cloud lays unmoving and unbroken across the islands. In the distance, St Marys to the south and Annnett to the west fade in and out of the sea mist. From my vantage point by the greenhouse, I can watch the tide ebb quickly. Spring tides leave the channel empty, the seabed and sea creatures exposed to the sky for a few hours. The turquoise waters disappear to leave great swathes of pale, wet sand, only to refill a few hours later and be hidden once again in their underwater world.

One of the most challenging aspects of island life can be the changes in population on the island. Most islanders are naturally folk who are quite happy being in their own company. Not unsociable, not miserable or uncaring, but happy with solitude. During winter the population of Bryher averages about 60 people, we enjoy a huge amount of personal space, solitary walks and we each respect each other boundaries. In the summer months the population increases to several hundred as visitors come and enjoy all that Bryher has to offer. It is a change we have to get used to each year, as we learn again to share our spaces with others. It’s a contrast that brings friendships and fun but also frustrations as our homes and lives become open to all.

I wait until there is enough water to swim and then return to Green bay, my current favourite spot. The air has freshened a little, the cloud lifted just slightly but the day holds on to its gentle stillness. Little waves of clear bubbling water lap onto the sand, the boundary of earth and sea, moving with the tide.

Slowly being swallowed by the incoming tide are the remains of an old stone wall, standing upright like the spine of a buried sea monster, it marks the boundary of a time gone by. It’s a wonderful reef type structure to explore underwater, home to bladder wrack forests, limpets, top shells, crabs and probably numerous other creatures that I haven’t spotted. It’s not deep water but the difference in how the same things can feel in and out of the water is striking. Looking down into this rocky world from above there is a visual sense of beauty, but once you are submerged it becomes a world of heightened senses; of movement, of the waves washing you backwards and forth, the weeds brushing against your skin, the light through the water, the sound of the sea, the salt in your breath.

Boundaries are all around us, physically, emotionally and personally. It’s an interesting exercise to think about how we are affected by, and how we affect other people’s boundaries.  

Today has been a hard day of graft, planting out young beetroot and cavelo nero, and digging a great ditch ready to sink the plastic for our new poly tunnel. My back aches but I know the fresh air and physical work will induce a sound night’s sleep. This morning was a perfect spring day. Warm, bright, radiant sunshine. The colours on land and at sea so crisp and clear it made the heart sing. All creatures happy to be out and about, the perfect day for checking on our honey bees.

Both hives are busy and thrum with the sound of these clever little creatures as they gather bright orange, waxy pollen, working hard to build their colony for the summer ahead.

A good friend of mine gave me a beautiful little book called The Life of the Bee, by Maurice Maeterlinck, written in 1901. The writing is poetic and gives wonderful imagination to how I view the bees. He writes……

The first time that we open a hive there comes over us an emotion akin to that we might feel at profaning some unknown object, charged perhaps with dreadful surprise, as a tomb.

It certainly is a mix of emotions, excitement, anticipation and wonder as you open up the hives and take a look into the world of the bee. I am just thrilled to see they have all survived the winter and seem to be thriving. This time last year we had unfortunately lost our first hive, however that did lead to a fun afternoon of munching honey at the honey party.

One thing we feel is important, both for the farm here, and for farming in general, is to try to allow people, especially children, to learn about keeping animals, growing food and how the food they eat is produced. So knowing we had some spare frames of honey, we took a short video of me, dressed in my bee keeping suit, removing one of the frames from the now empty hive. We then had all the island children around to come and see the video, and, more importantly to them, eat the honey. We had such fun. Martha dressed in her bee costume and felt like queen bee for the afternoon. A few of the boys were really interested in how the comb was constructed, some of the children found the honey too sweet and waxy, whilst others just dug into the liquid gold with teaspoons, hunks of bread and fingers. It was very messy, lots of sticky honey everywhere, but it was a special day that I will always remember fondly and I hope the children will remember it too as they grow older.

As is often the case on these islands, the weather changes rapidly and so by the time I arrive at Green bay for my much need swim it is cool and damp, an enchanting and mysterious shroud of dense fog hides the islands from the rest of the world, we are islands in the mist. The sea is calm and clear, a fluid, silky blue and my aching body longs for the freedom of the water and the numbness of the cold. It doesn’t disappoint, and as I sink down through the layers of icy light, faded green and deeper blue, down to the sandy golden seabed, my world becomes quiet, wondrous and ethereal.

I spot a friend on the shoreline combing for driftwood and one solitary gull paddles around with me. The first tripper boats of the season are back out on the water and the launch smokes its way from Tresco to Bryher delivering goods. All far enough away to be objects on the horizon and not distracting from the glorious colours of sea lettuce, caragheen, coral weed and rainbow wrack that float around me.

I emerge from the water sated and relaxed, my muscles loosened and my head calm, what a way to end the day.

Today the Scillonian sails once more. For those of you who don’t know the Isles of Scilly, the Scillonian is the passenger ship that sails March through to November. As the sun, and the changing light, marks the beginning and end of summer, so the Scillonian marks the beginning and end of the season for many islanders.

As it begins its first sailing change is afoot, for with it comes visitors in greater numbers, another travelling option for islanders and the all-important income the visitors bring to Scilly. Although the daily routine on the farm doesn’t dramatically change due to the Scillonian sailing, it does change the mind-set, the days of making hay whilst the sun shines are fast approaching.

Time and tide wait for no man.

Change can be one of the most challenging aspects of life, for some more than others. Humans and animals seem to thrive on a certain amount of routine and stability. We all have ways in which we like to do things, food we like to eat in a certain way, places we like to go and ultimately a little control over the how, the when and the where. Island life can challenge those comforts of stability and getting things done when and where you want them, but I feel that makes you better able to adapt to change and to “go with the flow”.

                Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don’t resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like”

                                                                                                                Lao Tzu

As beings our thoughts and emotions change daily too. I imagine myself, my mind, my well being, to be like water, not in the liquid sense of the word, but in the sense of being within the water, sinking or swimming. Some days I feel I am swimming along quite nicely, other days I feel I am sinking. I try to accommodate these changing feelings and flow naturally with them, the tide will always change. I am sure many people feel the same.

I learn from the island and the sea, the weather is always changing and the sea, although a constant, (it is always there) it is also always changing. It teaches me to enjoy it in its present state, be that wild and stormy or calm and still. Just as life can feel wild and stormy or calm and still.

Today the sea is so calm, a relief after all the gales and wild water. I play, diving and tumble turning, enjoying the clear waters and exploring the seaweeds and rocks hidden below the surface. I swim, the flat, calm surface skimming through the midline of my vision. A large piece of sea lettuce floats across my goggles, wraps itself around my face and for a moment my whole world is a bright, luscious green before it carries on its journey.  I wish I could be in this peaceful, blue world of weightless freedom for much longer than the cold will allow. When I walk back up the beach the pale sand feels warm underfoot.

Writing and wild swimming lend themselves to each other. Wild water creates beauty, drama, serenity and words describe these beauties and wanders. The wellbeing that can be gained from each activity comes from similar experiences, both create a sense of personal space, to think, to clear the mind, to put thoughts to paper.

The Oxford English Dictionary states the etymological roots of the word “record” are “re” meaning again, and “cord” meaning heart. Gillie Bolton believes that the writer is their own first reader, so writing, in the first instance, is a private communication with the heart of the self, (Bolton, 2011 Write Yourself).

Wild swimming gives me a spiritual connection to nature and the beautiful and inspiring environment surrounding me. Water features in so many sayings and images used in life, the tides of change, going with the flow, either sink or swim and many, many more. Leonardo da Vinci said that water is the driving force of all nature. We seek great solace in water.

Unlike a drop of water which losses its identity when it joins the ocean, man does not lose his being in the society in which he lives. Man’s life is independent. He is born not for the development of his society alone, but for the development of his self. (B.R Ambedkar)

Wild waters can create such a powerful sense of emotion, and writing about those experiences continues that exploration of thoughts and feelings. Gillie Bolton goes on to say that humans are narrative-making creatures; creating stories is our way of making sense of things. Illness, bereavement and loss can disrupt understanding of life.

So I try to use Wild swimming, the beauty of Bryher and writing to discover, understand and ultimately attempt to develop a better “self”.  

It takes a certain amount of self will and determination to get myself out into the water today. The sun is out and shining brightly but the wind is bitterly cold and biting. The spring showers when they blow in are harsh and unforgiving. The sea, down along Green Bay, gleams turquoise and silver, the breeze creating little dancing patches of shimmer, chasing across the water’s surface. I am chilled by the breeze and for a moment I am tempted to stay sitting on my rock in the sun. But I know how good that water will feel once in, so I join the gulls and the shimmering ripples and plunge out into the cool.

The highlight of the swim is a huge piece of kelp, dislodged and travelling in the tide, its copper brown, leathery straps flowing effortlessly like mermaid’s hair. I play with it, swirling it, enchanted by the movement and the mystery of the many stories of those sea beauties that could be imagined. My toes maybe freezing but my heart is glowing.

Yellow weather warning across the country. Here still blowy! SW gusting 54 mph, 11 degrees feels like 5.

Popplestones is a deep, drop shaped bay, the narrow entrance welcomes the Atlantic waves, their first encounter with land since America. The popplestone wave, named so by Penny, is a coast to coast wave of deep blue water, tipped with icy turquoise light, rolling into the bay. Once it hits the rocks at the mouth of the bay all its energy disappears and the sea quietens. Today, toward Gweal hill the wave crashes into granite, spray flung high into the air and then swept back on itself in great arcs, like the steam from a powering engine. The wind howling and sea hissing, sound like a great freight train roaring along.

Although windy it’s not cold and I am relieved to get out of my bulky coat and hat and feel the cool air on my skin. I have to climb down across the granite boulders, taking care not to twist an ankle. I leave my clothes underneath a large pebble to prevent them blowing away. The granite shingle pummels my feet as I wobble down the beach, blown around by the gale.

The water is crystal clear, a pale emerald green, pale golden grit below me scattered with discarded limpet shells. I swim parallel to the shoreline, not brave enough to swim out towards the wave. I can feel the suck and push of the water as it surges in and out. The surface is really choppy, I miss-time a breath and get a belly full of chilled saline, I imagine it sluicing through my innards. I wash around, laying on my back, watching two Herring gulls swooping above me, a watchful eye, a shag my only companion in the water.
When I return to land, I wrap back up in coat and hat to wander home along the sandy track. A sense of quiet in my mind and an appreciation that once I am hunkered in by the fire later on, I can recall that wild and wonderful feeling of swimming in the storm.

                                                           Penny’s Painting, The Popplestone Wave

Kitchen Par. Eastern side of Bryher, towards the north end but sheltered from the strong wind that is unrelenting. A tiny cove of soft pale sand, granite pebbles and dark, lichen covered granite boulders. The coast to my right rises steeply up from the waters edge, yellow gorse and bottle green pittisporum, mingle with the dead brown bracken, soon to be fresh and green once more.

Not my usual swimming ground so a thrill of anticipation to be exploring new waters raises the pulse a little. The soft sand becomes more gritty on the soles of my feet as I near the water, still its fluid greens and blues. With a sense of exhilaration I dive down into the glassy green and swim out into the little bay. A pause for air and to take in my surroundings, the looming rocks of Hangman’s island seem even larger from my seal’s eye view. The brown, sea stained granite stacks, with their yellow lichen covered backs, rise up from the water like great sea monsters awakening.

Out a little bit further, I venture, down to the seabed, through the murky water. Suddenly out of the gloom, right before my eyes, a large granite boulder. Studded with limpets and purple top shells, surrounded by waves of egg wrack and bladder wrack. If I could breathe I would have caught my breath in fright, instead I try to let the initial feeling of panic subside and study the rock for what it is, harmless and beautiful.

During the summer months, this cove is home to the little fishing fleet of Bryher, and their pink and orange mooring buoys bob in the channel awaiting the boats return from their winters rest. Large wooden crates called carbs line the shore. These hold lobster and crab out to sea, once caught, ready for bringing back to land. The sea-worn silvered wood, covered in remnants of seaweeds, shells, now sandblasted from the winter gales, wait patiently to be returned to the sea. They remind me of a day not long after we had moved to Bryher.

We had been at Hillside for about ten days, just started to get to meet the locals, and find our way around. It comes as a bit of a surprise to some of our guests that many doors on Bryher remain unlocked for most of their lives. I’m not sure we even have a key for our door. Not having a key was not a shock to us, however I was taken aback when I walked into the kitchen one afternoon to find a huge beast of a lobster in our kitchen sink! Only just fitting into the sink, it hissed and thrashed angrily about, squirting bubbles of salty water from around its deep blue armor plated body.

Once again, being moorland folk and never having eaten, let alone cooked, a lobster, I was at a total loss as to what to do with it. We felt we should try to cook him, it was obviously a welcome gift from a local fisherman, so I endeavored to find the biggest pan I could. A rather traumatic time ensued, obviously more so for poor Mr Lobster. The squeaking and hissing death calls, were torturous as he was boiled pink. I did eat him because I felt I owed it to him after cooking him, but in hind-site I wish we had released him back into his watery world and I haven’t eaten lobster since.

In our culture of political correctness and disclaimers I have to add this is by no means a poor reflection on our wonderful shell fishermen of Bryher, in fact the opposite of it being such a kind gift. Nor an argument for or against the Vegan battle. It is solely a wonderful little tale of island life, and the fact you never quite know what you may find left in your kitchen sink.

No swim today, earlier I was relieved now I am twitchy. The weather has been terrible, Storm Gareth I think they are calling this one. A howling, bitter wind, an oppressive mist and driving dampness that has chilled me to the bones. The grey, tumultuous sea is raging with great white horses reaching over Scilly rock and the coastline at Gweal. I think some self compassion is needed, stay safe and dry.

We spent the morning moving our ten North Devon cattle to a new grazing area. These gentle giants of ruby red and russet brown are always happy to move to fresh grass, and leap and play. Now hefted to the island these cows now know the routes they need to take. As calves are born they follow their mothers, grandmothers, aunties and siblings from pasture to pasture, along Bryhers small road and sandy tracks.

As they play and wander over the Popplestone bank, they seem to hardly notice the gale blowing harshly in from the sea, whilst we struggle to walk and battle with blowing coats and wooly hats over eyes. Despite the bleakness there are still flashes of spring colour to be found, nestled into banks and hedges. The deep purple of Hebe and bobbing bluebells sitting beside the pale yellow narcissi.

They say absence makes the heart grow stronger and I am missing the sea, so tomorrow I will be swimming…..whatever the weather!