Bryher holds many treasures for many people. Each have their own collections of coloured shells, pottery and sea glass. Treasure and Salvage have long been part of Scilly’s history. The wrecking of the Minnehaha in 1910, was one of Bryhers largest recoveries of salvage. Items included cigarettes, pencils, clocks, sewing machines, a grand piano and boxes of jewelry. Most of the salvaged goods were returned to St Mary’s, however an American organ appeared in the chapel not long after the wreck.

There are rules of salvage still, an age old, unwritten law known to islanders, that is passed down from generation to generation. Many useful and therefore valuable objects are still washed up after great storms during the winter and early spring.

When we first moved over to Bryher, being moorland folk and not aware of coastal rules, we would come across piles of planks and wooden posts, plastic tubs, rope and net, and marvel at this treasure landed on the shore. It wasn’t until we had used it to build a treehouse in the garden, and an island email sent and a gruff word at the pub was muttered, that we realised the error of our ways. The rule follows; if your found treasure is already above the high tide line, then it is NOT your treasure and has already been claimed by someone quicker to seek out such finds than you!

Apart from the treasures washed in, the shoreline holds many other treasures for the eye to gaze upon.

The retreating tide, turquoise water fading fast, calmly disappears, to leave behind tiny treasures of shells and stones and mermaids tears .

I swim today off Green bay, sheltered from the chilling wind. The air and sun warm my face and the sea is a brilliant green as the tide ebbs. Golden sunbeams dance through the water onto my skin, encasing my arms like bracelets. As the sun dips behind a passing cloud warmth is lost and the sea turns to liquid pewter. Along the midline, a dazzling ribbon of silver light splits my world in two. The free and enchanting underwater world and the comforting, known, skyward world.

A flock of about forty oyster catchers doze and sun themselves on the shoreline, snowy white underbellies, jet black backs and pointy, stick-like orange beaks. Plenty of grey gulls to keep me company. I am reluctant to leave, it’s just beautiful in there today.

A good friend, wonderful poet and regular visitor to Bryher wrote a poem that captured my heart…as an aspiring mermaid and a treasure hunter of mermaids tears. I hope you enjoy……

” Mermaids are such timid creatures, so in our lives they rarely feature. Yet hidden from the human eye, alone on sandy beaches lie. On rounded rock at waters edge, mermaids have time to rue their pledge. In exchange for freedom of the deep, on dry land they may never sleep. Much they miss the whispering trees, the scent of flowers on the breeze. As oftimes humans wish to be, able to explore the turquoise sea. So mermaids tears fall to the strand, glistening brightly on the sand. Like sharp shards of coloured glass, rounded by every wave to pass. Above the shore on spikes of green, are moisture drops of rainbow sheen. The summer sun shows their glory, but fairy tears are another story!

With thanks to Clem Davies

The Beauty of wild swimming is that you do it with nature and every swim is unique. Each day, even each hour, there are differences to be aware of; the weather, the tide, the wildlife, the light, the sounds, the feel of the air. Always changing, always unique.

The school run here is less of a run or manic drive, more of a stroll. Each walk is different. At high tide the school boat leaves from quay, at low tide it leaves from Bar whisking the children over to Tresco.

When the children leave from quay we walk through Veronica Farm past rows of aromatic herbs, succulents and flowers such as narcissi and whistling jacks. It is often busier here with the launch unloading or the post boat, doctors boat or tripper boats coming and going.

At the far end of Green Bay is Bar…or Anneka’s quay. It is inevitably cold and windy here as the weather blows in from the North, up the channel. It is strikingly beautiful though with banks of sand, rocks and seaweed exposed at low tide to either bask in sunshine or be blasted by the gales.

Some days we trudge our way down to the boat in wellies and coats, battling the elements. Other days it’s a languid stroll in sandals and flip flops, sand between our toes and eyes squinting in the sun. In spring we pick narcissi and watch oyster catchers jogging along the shoreline. In summer we pop into the little shop for an ice cream treat or stay on the beach, paddling and rock pooling. Autumn brings an air of peace and harvest. We pick blackberries to store in the freezer over winter. Winter comes and we watch the waves and seaweed crashing over the quays, some days the weather is too wild to boat so we stay at home hunkered down.

The school run is not a chore, it is a pleasure, a chance to walk with the children, talk and enjoy the island. Today however I have relented and they are going in our farm buggy as the weather is awful. I am keen to walk, I will be getting wet anyway and I love the feel of the rain on my skin.

The wind has been rattling the tiles on the farmhouse roof all night and we have a leak in the gutter causing a mini waterfall to gush noisily. The morning is grey. Grey sky, grey sea….even the green hedges look a little grey. The rain is driving across the island from West to East in a horizontal blur. The horses are tucked up behind the hedge, tails to the rain. No sign of any other animals from the kitchen window, I suspect they stay snuggled up in their houses.

The track through Veronica has puddles of mud that bounce with tiny circling ripples of raindrops. In the distance the fog horn sounds it’s monotone hum. The sea to my right along Green bay is calm, protected from the wind. Small waves of glassy grey green roll onto the pale sand. At quay rivulets of muddy water wash down across the beach and merge into the green sea.

My feet sink deep into the wet, cold sand. The surface of the water is restless, flurried by the breeze and the rain. I don’t see one creature as I swim, everything is taking shelter somewhere warm and dry. The water is skin tinglingly chilled and the only feature visiable through the green haze are the pearl-like bubbles flowing out from my limbs. Maybe not the nicest day but in its own way beautiful and unique.

Nature moves in rhythm with the seasons, the farm does the same and island life too. Never before have I felt so closely connected to the changing seasons. My working life now follows the pattern of light and weather rather than the time of shift or clinic as it did in the NHS. Each season on the farm brings with it pleasures and challenges, the cosiness of winter, the business of summer.

Spring is a wonderful season for many people, that feeling of new beginnings, a fresh start. The lengthening light and growing warmth. It’s a time on the farm when I spend many hours in my “office “, the greenhouse. Silvered wooden frames, glass misty with mildew. Even on a gloomy, cold winters day, the greenhouse provides light and warmth and I have a dreamy view of the farm, Tresco channel and Appletree Bay. Within are plans and hopes for a successful season, hundreds of tiny seedlings and tender young plants. Some days I listen to the radio, other days I just enjoy the sounds of the island around me, the sea, the wind, the birds. From now on there is a constant rotation of planting, potting on and hardening off and the greenhouse bursts with life.

I have sneaked in a quick swim after the school run and before I go and start work in the greenhouse. The day is bright and breezy, tall spiked echiums are just begging their show of beautiful blue and purple spires. The island hedges and tucked away corners are filled with the smell of wild garlic and onion as the little tri-cornered leeks grow, with their dainty white flowers and delicious stalks.

I wander down past Carn Villa, Hanjague, Atlanta, Bank and Glenhope, down to Great Par with its expansive bay that sweeps out into the wild Atlantic. There is still the distant roar and thunder of a big swell and the water is swirled up into an opaque green. As I dive down through the gloom, the seabed becomes clearer. The sand looks like corrugated sheeting, great rolling peaks and troughs of golden grains of ancient rock. Circling gulls and two elegant swans are my swimming companions. Neither of us is worried about sharing the water but we keep a respectful distance.

I have been having a wonderful week writing my blog about my wild swims. I wanted to say thank you to all of you that have taken the time to read it and all the lovely comments that have given me such confidence.

I am looking forward to writing more, about my swims, our life on the farm and Bryher and I hope you continue to enjoy reading these. ❤

Bryher isn’t an island of perfection….how could there be such a place? For all its stunning beauty it is easy to only write through romantic, rose tinted eyes. Yet it is a place where lives happen, a community lives and works. People celebrate birth, endure and enjoy life and experience death. Certainly we are not uncivilized and we now have electricity, clean water and super fast broadband! However there are sacrifices to be made in order to live in such a remote and beautiful place. Being far away from family and friends on the mainland can be hard during difficult times.

When my Dad died last year, the feelings of loss, sadness and finality were heart aching. From that experiance and being on Bryher, which allows a beauty and space for thinking, I have tried to find an appreciation for life around me. To notice in as much detail as I can the glorious environment. When I swim I seek out new spaces; beaches, rocks, the water around me, the sky above. Creating space within my head and my heart for nature’s wonders, self compassion and an inner peace.

In her book The Mindful Art of Wild Swimming, Tessa Wardley says,

“A common misconception about mindfulness is that practitioners are aiming to achieve a kind of blissed-out blank. This could not be further from the truth- the aim of mindfulness is actually to be in a state where we are fully engaged in the present. Swimming requires careful coordination of the mind, your body and your breath. Many people describe how they feel so alive, calm and focused; feeling the water and letting the strokes flow. “

Air temp 9° wind WNW 51 mph.

The wind has been howling all night but we wake to a startlingly bright sunny morning. After feeding the animals on the farm we walk out to Droppy Nose Point on the western side of Bryher. The strength of the wind on this exposed headland is such that it is almost impossible to stand. The force of air against my chest makes it hard to breathe. Rainbows of diamond-like crystals of spray are flown up and over the rocks as the wild sea smashes into the coast .

Boiling culdrons of froth swirl around the rocky inlets. Even the seals seek shelter, their black silky heads bobbing and glinting in the sun. They follow us with curiosity as we walk along the coastal path. They appear so calm and serene in such a tumultuous sea.

I am not in the mood for a wild swim today and so make my way down to the sheltered end of Green Bay. I don’t swim far out from the beach as I know the current will be strong, instead I luxuriate in the silky cold water. Watching the colours of green and blue and the golden sunbeams bounce and ripple around me and over me. I float, suspended on my back, the breath in my lungs the only sound. I stare up at the brightest blue sky, savasana, cocooned in a watery world.

One of those tiny, golden threads that in an unexplainable way thread their way through our lives is Penny. Penny Rumble and her love for sea swimming and art became part of our Hillside adventure right from the start.

A bright, sunlit autumn morning back in September 2014, the atmosphere of nervous anticipation was tangible. It was two days after our interview with the Duchy of Cornwall land steward and we were awaiting THE phonecall. We had travelled down through Cornwall to a small hotel for a pre-arranged weekend break. Through the busy streets of Penzance, over the little harbour bridge, past the quay where the Scillonian docks. No sign of that infamous white ship, already sailing to Scilly with her cargo of eager passengers. Onwards through the working port of Newlyn, a hive of activity, fishermen, artists and shopkeepers busy at work. Finally we reached the pretty little village of Mousehole with it’s famous harbour. With our complementary coffee, we sat in the beautiful hotel gardens, looking out towards St Clement Isle basking in the deep, blue sea.

Just below us on a grassy terrace, a slight woman dressed in a paint splattered blue tunic, had a large easel and canvas before her. The canvas was empty, white, awaiting it’s masterpiece. A small group of chattering people were sitting, expectantly waiting for that same masterpiece to appear. The artist, a thin, quick moving woman with shoulder length dark hair and darting eyes, began to paint. Her passion is the sea. To capture it’s movement, the feel of it, the energy. Not from a birds eye view as the gulls might see it, but from a swimmers eye. Bobbing from within the sea to within the surface of her painting. She moved determinedly, smudging paint with a pallet knife. Her energy and movement transferred into the waves, the rise and fall of the sea swells on the canvas.

My mind was only partially engaged with the artist, thinking more of what the phone call would reveal. Our lives were standing at a fork in the road and the next few moments would determine which path we were able to take.

Almost two years later a lady I vaguely recognised came to stay with us at the farm….it was Penny! I watched her setting off and returning from her swims with a mild curiosity and slight envy. Since then we have become great friends, she returns regularly and we swim together and she paints the sea surrounding Bryher. When I look into her paintings I can imagine being in the sea. She also sent me the gift of Lynne Ropers book, Wild Woman Swimming, which has been the catalyst for my writing. I often wander at how these tiny threads in people’s lives intertwine to create a bigger picture.

The air hangs heavy, mild and damp. An ominous calm envelopes the island, the calm before the storm. The hazy sun, shrouded in thick, opaque cloud sits to the west as the day eases it’s way towards evening. The golden banks of sand that at low tide stood proud, are now light flashes of turquoise amongst a darkening sea. The salty air, pungent and unmistakable, evokes memories of childhood trips from the peaty air of Dartmoor to the seaside, where Dad would breathe in great lungfulls of the briny atmosphere.

In the distance the sea thunders, way out in the Atlantic, bringing the threat of wild winds and big seas. Gulls paddle and feed as the bladder wrack begins to float, once more consumed by the water. There isn’t silence. The sea gently laps, the gulls call, the Atlantic roars, the breeze stirs in my ear and yet there is a peace. A silence all of my own.

Today’s swim is short and sweet. Incoming tide, glassy still surface hides a strong current beneath. The depth is only about four foot and I watch the seaweed quickly rolling like tumbleweed along the sandy seabed. I have to swim with commitment to make it around the little island at quay, against the pull of tide. I then turn and whizz along with the seaweed as if in some strange race…..great fun!

Every time I swim in Bryher’s wild waters, or walk to the summit of one of its seven hills to admire the view, I pinch myself and marvel at how fortunate our move to Hillside was.

Our physical move to Hillside happened in August 2015, however our love of Scilly and smallholding can be traced far before that date. Graham was born into a farming family. The seventh son of seven boys, he lived on a fairly large tenanted farm on the Devon Cornwall boarder, alongside the great snaking River Tavy. He had the arguably enviable life of being raised on a mixed farm, where the milk for breakfast came warm straight from the house cow and drained through a tea towel to remove any “bits”. The fruit they picked from their own apple and plum trees, the eggs were freshly laid daily and the honey was from their bees. Although in the course of events he ended up not following farming as a career, it was always there, running through his veins.

I on the other hand, did not grow up on a farm but felt very much that I would have liked to. There were always animals in my life and I spent many hours on other people’s farms. The romantic idea of smallholding, “The good life” and being self sufficient became a dream that we both longed to come true. Fanciful dreams maybe, and I am a dreamer, quite happy to “mind mooch” for hours on end, but dreams can come true, our adventure on Bryher is proof of that.

In 2001 two events happened that would seem to lay the foundations for our move to Hillside….of course unknown to us at the time. The first was buying a small, rather rundown little cottage in Cornwall, high up and remote on Bodmin moor. The joy of this little cottage was the large garden and subsequent rented land nearby that enabled us to grow vegetables, keep hens, weaner piglets, sheep and goats. A real taste of smallholding. The second event was our first trip to Scilly. We had been given a small tent with a recommendation from a family friend to go and camp on The Isles of Scilly. Unbelievably neither of us had ever heard of these mysterious little islands. Quite by luck we found a space on St Martin’s campsite and set out to discover these unknown lands.

I will never forget that first visit. A scorching hot August bank holiday. The sea such an intense turquoise and a small pod of dolphins that dived and skimmed next to our boat as we travelled to St Martin’s. How was it possible we had never been here before? From that moment on we were caught hook, line and sinker and returned year after year.

These islands, like the sea, the tide, the moon, capture you in an unseen force where you are to be pulled back time and time again. They become that golden thread that entwines your heart and threads through your life. To swim in the deep wild Atlantic is to emerse yourself into a force much greater than yourself. Sometimes there are points in your life when greater forces seem to conspire and lead you where they want you, our move to Hillside was one such point in time.

Early morning swim again, no better way to start the day. Blackbird is out catching the early worm, wood pigeons “paw paw” and the dawn chorus of chattering sparrows begins. The tide is satisfyingly high, almost reaching the little granite wall that runs between the sea and Veronica Farm. The only light in the sky is a misty sliver of frosted white cloud surrounded by grey.

As I reach the beach at quay, the silver sea is perfectly calm, the only sound the rhythmic lapping on wet sand. Fluent, peaceful strokes, I try to make as little disturbance to the water as possible. A gull stands on the edge of the quay as if he is waiting for a boat, he spots me and soars up and away. I dive down through the glassy green into a gently waving forest of bladder wrack and watch a tiny yellow periwinkle crawling up through the brown weed. I come across a piece of rope attached to a heavy, rusted chain embedded in the sand. The rope is barely recognisable, now a great feather boa of weed, soft and playful.

A boatmen appears to unmoor his punt. Seal-like I dive down and hide, hear the zingging whirl of the boat’s engine through this unearthly watery world.

Rather reluctantly I return to land, the sky now mackerel cloud and pale blue, the sun a great frosted golden glow peeping above Tresco.

Wind WNW and gusty. Air temp 9°

The rhythms of our lives, of islanders lives, are dictated by the tide. The channel that sits between Tresco and Bryher, and flows into the Roads, the deep channel between these two off islands and St Marys, is crisscrossed by long stretches of golden sandbanks. When the tide is low enough these sandbanks make it impassable for boats, even low enough to be able to walk across the channel. The tides are, in turn, dictated by the moon. At the moment it is a waxing crescent which I believe….although I am by no means an expert…..tobe the first phase, a thin sliver of a moon. What I do know is that the tide is becoming deeper at high tide and lower at low tide, with a greater tidal current.

In practical terms these tides restrict boating. Today is Thursday, shopping day, where off islanders travel down to the main island of St Marys for supplies and to meet with friends. Due to the tides the boat leaves Bryher at 9:30am and returns at 2pm, during which will be low tide. Thus high tide is either early morning or early evening. I opt for the early morning dip.

As the alarm sounds and my mind tries to extricate itself from slumber, there is a moment or two hesitation. Can I leave my warm, cosy bed, to swim into the cold sea? Absoloutly YES!

It’s 6:45am, not a soul to be seen as I walk down to the quay. The cosiness of bed is soon blown away and forgotten as the lung filling, fresh air energizes body and mind. It’s a cool dawn light, colours of grey and silver both in the sky and mirrored in the sea. Little birds are singing but I can’t see them as they hide away in the evergreen pittisporum hedges. The sea is calm and steadily laps the sand with it’s lacy white edges.

Abandoned limpet shells and strewn seaweed lead me to the quickly retreating waters edge. The icy cool hits my forehead and nostrils as I dive down into the steely grey waters. My toes and fingers sting with chill, but that moment of shock soon subsides into glorious calm. I swim quickly past the end of the quay, a large black block of a silhouette on my horizon. I realise that I am enjoying a free ride as the tide pulls me out toward the channel. I stop and bob, looking back towards the dark clouds, back lit by a pale orange light from an elusive sun. I can feel the sweep of water on my body and have to swim, without panic, strongly back to the beach. My companion, one gull, paddles in the shallows. Wrapped in my towel I stride back for breakfast.

Bryher. My home. Known in ancient cornish back in 1336 as Brayer…..Land of Hills. 28 miles from Lands End sitting amid the blue Atlantic, is this tiny island, approximately 330 acres, 1.5 miles North to South and 0.5 mile East to West with 81 permanent residents. Due to its position on a Paleolythic mountain structure known as Hercynian granite, the island is a contrast of rugged steep granite cliffs, wild windswept rusted bracken, yellow gorse and pink heather. On a stormy day the wind seems to blow right through you and the waves can reach from Hell Bay in the west across the island to the Tresco channel on the eastern side. To the south, tiny coves and long stretches of pale golden sands, so soft and twinkling it could be fairy dust, reach gently to the calm, crystal clear waters of the Tresco channel.

This beautiful island gives so much of itself to so many people. Hundreds travel here each year to soak up it’s natural beauty, it’s tranquillity. It’s freedom from the norm of mainland life, from traffic, noise and constant rush. People take from it wellbeing, peace of mind and happiness. They refill their visual tanks on nature’s wonders, the seal, the heron, eagrit, oystercatcher, puffin and wren.

I live at Hillside farm, a large beacon of a house, standing brilliant white against Timmy’s Hill. It was painted white by Trinity House and used as a shipping marker for boats approaching from the westward sea. Seventy years ago there was a single story thatched roof cottage nestled in beside the farmhouse. Only the remains of one wall and the hearth are left now. This cottage was called Clem’s cottage and was home to Clementina Hicks. She lived in Bryher all her life (1868-1953). In a book, Deep Down There Are Still Mermaids, Penny Gay, a long time visitor to Bryher, writes;

” Clemmie loved Bryher. It was the picking of tears in her eyes, the lump in her throat, the joy in her heart and the golden thread of happiness running through her life. She had to be tough, but she knew that this inner strength was drawn from the deep sense of contentment that came from living in such a magical place”

This strength of feeling for Bryher resonates with me and I often think of the islanders of the past, especially as I swim and walk and work, in places that Clemmie would have known and loved.

Great Par is a deep horseshoe shaped bay. At low tide a vast expanse of heaped brown bladder wrack, pale sand and granite, at high tide a lagoon of underwater exploration. Piles of rounded and smoothed granite pebbles wash in and out and change their position on an almost daily basis during the winter. Today the driving rain of first thing has dissipated to leave a blustery spring day. Bright sunshine one minute, then thick grey mizzle blowing in like damp dust the next. The sea is choppy, with a cool northerly wind whipping the surface into small busy waves, my skin tightens and pimples with goosebumps as I wade into the water. It’s cool and clear. Colours move through steel grey, turquoise green and deep blue as the light dances in and out from behind the clouds. As I float, the sun shines through and the sea turns to blindingly bright liquid silver, such beauty.

Last July my father died from Alzheimer’s disease. A good friend and yoga teacher gave me a little book written by Thich Nhat Hanh, a Zen Buddhist teacher. In it he says

“Most people are afraid of suffering. But suffering is a kind of mud to help the lotus flower of happiness grow. There can be no lotus flower without the mud “.

Today there is a battle, a force of mind and will against the chill air that gusts around the house and the driving rain that lashes the windows. The knowledge that it is going to be cold, those few moments of semi-nakedness stood at the top of the sand before sinking into the water. But I must go, there is no real doubt in my head that I will swim. I believe there can be no enjoyment and sense of fulfilment in mindfulness if you only practice it in pleasurable times, sights, sensations and thoughts……”no mud no lotus”. It is being mindful of the challenge, the cold, the pain, that allows us to control these feelings and know that they are only a passing sensation. I try to be present in these feelings as I am present in feelings of warmth, pleasure, wellness and happiness. The sandy track down to the beach, through Veronica farm is potholed and now fills with puddles. My feet squelch and splodge and slip and slide as I totter along in my flip flops. I walk past contrasts in flora so indicative of this tiny isle. Standing resolute against the seashore, dead hogweed seed heads. Spiked stars clutched together on outstretched limbs of minkskin grey. A relic of hot summer’s past. Alongside, vibrant, egg yolk yellow narcissi proudly bob their intoxicating scented heads. A sign of hot summers to come. The sky is grey and austere but the sea still lures me in and I submerge myself into it. The water is silky cold. Rain hits the steel blue sea leaving tiny silver pearls bouncing up from its surface. I shelter in the little bay behind the quay with 2 lesser backed gulls for company. After a swim I float, face up, staring into the opaque grey clouds and the rain pelts my face and blurrs my goggles.

Winter swims are solitary, no one on the beach let alone in the sea. There is a great sense of achievement in getting myself into the water day after day. It is a boost to confidence and self esteem as well as the circulation. It leaves a glow both mentally and physically that can not be beaten.