I am awoken by the cock crowing. It’s the best sort of alarm I feel. It stirs memories of distant childhood dreams, those of having colourful hens of all shapes and sizes. Feeding them in an orchard of fruit trees, watching them scratch amongst the wild flowers under the blossom. Even before I have opened my eyes my soul is lifted to a happy place.

Mornings are still dark when the cock crows. Today darker than pitch as a thick blanket of cloud covers every inch of sky. It sits above us all day adding to the heavy stillness that weights the air.

It’s cold, no wind but bone chilling. Cold air into warm nostrils, making the tip of my nose feel dewy and damp. I pull my woollen scarf snug around my neck. And yet there is the tiniest hint of change, of a new season just around the corner.

From my kitchen window red, pink and white chamelia flowers are sprinkled over their bottle-green bushes. The smell of fresh cut grass and hedge trimmings drifts on the air. Graham is busy trimming the hedges around the farm, the pittisporum is evergreen so we never really lose the greenery through the winter months, but the little sycamore tree outside our backdoor is different, naked and lythe.

It’s a very special tree, planted by a lady called Clemmie who lived next to the farmhouse from 1868 to 1953 in a thatched roofed cottage. She planted it in memory of her family that had all died through illness or drowning. Each time I look at the tree I remember Clemmie and the harsh but loved life she had on Bryher.

The winter stillness feels almost oppressive, ominous. It’s as if a great storm monster has sucked all the wind and wildness back into its self. It lurks now, somewhere out at sea with all this gathered up energy preparing to hurl it back at us. Soon if the weather forecast is correct.

I swim at Great Par where the large arching bay of water holds barely a ripple. A hush of silence the only sound.

The water is cold, now about 7°, but luscious as my limbs move freely in its glassy depths. I can not understand how water can look so green and so clear at the same moment. Today it is so clear that as I peer down from the surface I can pick out individual grains of sand. Even the seabed is still, nothing dares to move, to break this descended hush. Out to the buoy and back, I try to create as little movement and sound as possible. My few moments of total peace before the children return from school.

How can I write about my swim today without using every cliche known to mankind? I probably can’t is the answer.

There are no great revelations about life or moral lessons learnt. It was purely a swim of amazing beauty, peace and appreciation.

At first light the sky was lit as if on fire, the flame of a blow torch burning from the sky above. Out in space a deep blackness illuminated by the sliver of a silver moon and millions of diamond-like stars. Deep blackness smudged its way through blue, lilac and into the burning orange and pink of dawn. Not a breath of wind. Heavy silence. Flat water like glass. The sort of day that you know in your bones is going to be stunning.

Bones are rarely wrong and the day stretched out into clear blue skies and hot sunshine. As Ruthie and I worked in the fields, moving Dina and Titchy, we imagined how good it was going to feel cooling off with a swim at lunchtime.

The three of us headed to Rushy Bay, one of the most idyllic beaches on Bryher. It’s soft white sand gently slopes into the sea, where granite islands lay scattered across the horizon. And here are where the cliches really begin.

Clear water lapped the shore in frothy little waves, delicate like lace. I dived head first into the cool, the sunbeams bouncing off my skin as water flowed around my outstretched arms. A day for play, swimming up onto rocks, big bouldering lumps of granite decorated with barnacles, limpet and topshells. Splashing off into the cool.

Tumbling in an ecstasy of silver bubbles, diving down to run my fingers over the seabed and discover free floating seaweed.

The sun on the water’s surface was almost blindingly bright and the tiny flecks of silver sand were caught in its rays as they washed with the movement of the water.

All of us swam with beaming grins, in utter amazement that this is still January and only last week we were being pounded by storms and lashing rain.

This has to be the best way to spend your lunch break, a blissful swim off Rushy Bay.

It’s been a mixed day weather-wise. Powerful south-westerly gusts, soon accompanied by driving rain, the island a monochrome grey.

On my return walk from the shop, I looked across as I always do, towards Gweal Hill, Scilly Rock and the Atlantic rolling into Popplestones. Great waves were racing like steam engines. The spray being blown back by the wind looked like the steam from the engines as they tore through the sea. Down at the Bar the sand had been driven into its winter lunar landscape.

When I reached the brow of the hill the wind pummelled my flesh and squeezed the air from my lungs. It was a job just to keep walking.

However, on the farm work was still to be done, so the “A” team set to the task of constructing the new strawberry beds.

I enjoyed the morning work, using muscle and bone and that niggling energy that tickles below the skin. The mud is clawing, sucking, dirty but fun.

After lunch it would have be tempting to stay inside. The chimney moans, the wind howls and once I’ve lit the fire it crackles, pops and hisses. The orange glow a fierce but comforting friend. I burn old, dry rosemary and the sweet smokey smell drifts through the room.

The house feels heavy, safe and warm. But as the afternoon slides on towards evening, the wind eases, the rain abated and the sea beckons.

When I reach Quay the light is dim, the sea a thick grey-green soup of churned up silt. But it is smooth, calm, a lull in the storm’s energy. It’s a pleasure to dive into.

The visability is zero and I swim blindly up and down the bay, parallel to the shore. My body enjoying the cool stretching, my mind enjoying the peace. I can now return to the fire, except the lull in my energy, except warmth, comfort, sleep and wait for the wild weather forecast for tonight.

Graham is away this week, visiting family and friends and generally giving himself some “him” time.

For me that means I take on some of his jobs as well as mine on the farm. It reminds me once again of how much he does, how hard it can be to get up each day and always know there are animals to tend to and jobs that can’t wait. Our companionship in this life is so important to our wellbeing on the farm, without each other it would be pretty tough and lonely.

January on Bryher can be a hard time. The hibernation and indulgence of Christmas is over and the realisation that another busy season is just arround the corner begins to loom. The weather can be against you and money can be tight.

However, I am reminded today of how life on Bryher also throws you lifelines too.

The morning weather had been pretty miserable, howling wind and driving rain that seeped through any tiny gap it could find. The dog and I made our way through the mud to feed and check on the animals, most of whom felt as miserable as we did. Heads down, bottoms to the wind, noses wrinkled.

Once back inside it felt like the perfect day to give the house a good clean. The children were all back at school, so I set to on de-cluttering the festive chaos. It feels so good to strip the house back a little, see clean lines and space once again.

To keep myself company I had the radio on, not an interesting podcast on writting but general chatter in the background. They were discussing the growing addiction to binge watching T.V which apparently is becoming a recognised problem.

At first I tutted to myself, as I wiped the dog hair (which has this amazing ability to float everywhere) from the cupboard doors. Rolling my eyes at the ridiculous problem, the solution, in my mind being to just turn the television off.

The therapist was saying that this binge watching problem is robbing people of life’s most precious commodity, that being time.

This made me think. It is easy to dismiss this new addiction as silly but we all know how hard it is to break habits, routines and learned behaviours. We all know how hard it can be to just turn off the T.V to read or write, or walk, or run, or ring someone we have been meaning to phone for ages.

But just think what can be achieved in just a little amount of time, if you put your mind to it.

Bryher is very good at giving people time…if they are willing to take it.

So as the sunshine broke through the clouds that quickly scurried away in the breeze, I looked up from my spring clean. I had half an hour before Martha returned from school, could have a cuppa I thought…or I could go for a quick swim.

Of course I choose the swim. A quick little jog around Timmys Hill that sits behind our farmhouse, and then down the sandy track to the quay.

With ten minutes before the school boat was due I walked into the clear water. Floating fronds of seaweed spread out in free and beautiful patterns as the tide gently pushed them about.

Fingertips grazed the sand as I dived down, the world of the under water staring into my gaze.

As I swam through the trees of brown bladder wrack, tiny yellow periwinkle stood out like studded jewels.

I watched an eagrit lift off into the blue, curved neck that reminds me of the U-bend of a toilet, long legs dangling, wings working hard.

The familiar oyster catcher foraging along the strand and before me on the waters surface a pair of Great Northern Divers. Their white underbellies and gullet gleaming in the afternoon sunshine.

The school boat moors up against the quay, the children keen to get home.

In just a few minutes Bryher has given me a wonderful little bit of me time, and I’m so glad I took it.

One of my reasons for going on the writing retreat was to discover what it was I wanted to write, what sets my soul on fire. If the words I’m reading don’t grip my with rhythm, beauty and enchantment then I tend to put the book back. I aspire to write prose with rhythm and beauty that captures the reader.

I have become quite obsessed with Haiku and more recently Haibun. An ancient Japanese style of writing poetic prose.

As a new year approaches the conversation tends to turn to looking ahead, new aims and resolutions. I plan to document my island life in Haiku, 365 Haiku, one for each day, creating a little book of island Haiku. I am also going to read Haibun from both the 17th century master Matsuo Basho and more contemporary writers.

I want to write words that feel not just speak.

Anyway, to swimming.

This is my last blog of 2019.

Already I can feel the daylight lengthens ever so slightly and around Bryher tiny scented narcissi are showing their spring colours of pale yellow and white.

As much as winter can be a harsh season it also contains so much warmth and softness. The muted soft-sky of grey and golden white, with frosted clouds, blurred as if caught behind opaque glass. Day lit by the golden orb of half hidden sun. Winter sun is soft, gentle and appreciated.

The track, rough and sandy, is narrow. With outstretched arms I can almost reach the banks on either side as they chanel me down the hill. I stretch my arms as the gull stretches arced wing. But my feet are heavy on the ground whilst hers lift free on hidden air.

The light of day fades as nightime slides towards me. I walk through a dark canopy of trees, their reaching arms entwine above my head, green, damp and mossy.

The wet ground is dark, my eyes strain to see the undulations of the soft earth. A granite cottage set back from the path is quiet. No smoke puffs from the cold chimney. The white wooden gate is shut.

The tunnel of trees ends, grey light filters pale against me once again. I turn to my left , a gap dug in the bank, where dark knotted weed and smoothed off stone have edged their way from the beach below.

The sea, as if cast from glass, sits smooth, still and clear.

White bones of winter

An ice grey the sky above

Reflects the cool sea.

Fat bottomed feet grow numb to the grit and grind of sand. More numb still as soft icy water caresses white skin, licking ankle bone and shin.

Naked I sink into cool silk, skin prickles as it flows from shoulders to neck.

Such soft pale flesh, tightened to mottled blue, now hugs the towel and warmth of wool.

Past year washed free

Tide will forever ebb and flow

Still I love the sea.

I hope 2020 brings you all good health and happiness. Happy New Year! Xx

This is a time of year that holds more traditions than at any other time. Tradition; for good or bad, we seem to love them. On Bryher Christmas is a quiet time but still full of little family traditions and slowly, year on year we are building ours. Of còurse for me it must now include swimming.

My Christmas Eve swim began with a headlong dive into the icy-green bubbles.

Boxing day we now have a tradition in which we spend the morning building and sailing little boats on our field, (flooded in winter and renamed the lake). We meet neighbours with children and sail the boats with varying degrees of success but lots of fun.

In the afternoon before the daylight fades and we all snuggle in for another evening of board games, bingo and Christmas television; Ruthie, Justin, Jacob (not Ted pictured below) and I leap in for a refreshing dip.

It’s the perfect antidote to the feasting and lethargy of Christmas, which is wonderfully indulgent for a day or two but soon becomes stuffily stagnating.

It’s been great to watch this boxing day tradition on the news too. Thousands of people all over the country leaping into the sea. Everyone enjoying the thrill, fun and companionship of wild swimming.

I hope you’ve been able to enjoy the Christmas traditions that are special for you. To all you lovely folk who take the time to read my blog, thank you and I wish you all a very Merry Christmas!

It has been my perfect winter weather today. The skies have been mostly blue, the odd shower bringing with it a dazed drizzle-like grey. The afternoon sun a frosted ethereal orb. Yet the wind has been strong and harsh, driving the green sea into a frothy white fury. Sometimes I look at this mighty beast and wish to be it, the sea; completely free to hurl and smash itself, without pain, into the rocks in awesome beauty.

A hot frustration to feel the wildness of the water made me avoid the calm of Quay. Instead I headed for Popplestones where I knew I could watch the Atlantic smash itself against the rocks whilst staying safe.

However after a wonderful, face splattering swim, following the drift and swell of the water, getting out was not so easy.

I should have swum more to the centre of the bay, where instead of granite boulders there is sand. But I didn’t and a couple of large breakers swept in knocking me forward and off my feet.

I didn’t feel panic, what I felt was my soft, pale flesh grating along sand and granite. I had no choice but to go where the water sent me, it’s power too persuasive to argue with.

As the water sucked back, the ground beneath me sliding away, I dug in and clambered out, blood mixing with salt water as it ran from hands, legs and feet.

Maybe a little close to the edge of wildness but thrilling too. The cuts and bruises will heal quickly but the feeling of being in that wonderful wild water will live in my memories for much longer.

Thinking back to those long, hot summer days of endless blue skies and twinkling seas. They seem such a distant memory now as once again our little island is harshly beaten with another winter storm.

Today it’s barely light at 8am and darkness never really leaves as the grey skies encase the day. Gusting winds of 60mph hurl the sea against the coast with relentless pounding fury.

Ela, a friend, commented during the summer on how the blog posts were always about calm blue seas. Well Ela, today’s swim and blog is just for you. Not a hint of blue twinkle in sight.

After feeding up the animals, stuffed up in coats, hat and scarf, I take a quick look at the sea down near the quay. Tumultuous waves are brown with silt and chopped weed, but they look inviting, exciting and fun. So I think to myself, yeah…why not?

I even persuade Ruthie to join me. Taking a calculated risk, the waves and wind pushing us back towards the quay rather than away from it, we scramble out through the breakers. These waves try to unbalance us but with no luck. Once we are afloat we can swim out into clearer water and bounce our way around the little rocky headland.

The big waves are quite gentle really, lifting and swirling us like corks in the wash. We are swept, with very little effort on our behalf, around the end of the quay. Here the water builds in white water and spray to be flung over the concrete barrier standing in its way. Lobster pots are pinned up against the metal railings which prevent them being washed into the sea.

Rain and salt spray sting our faces like hail. Into the bay it is calmer and the sea’s surface beautifully textured with tiny glass beads and ripples as the rain hammers the grey water.

That cosy log fire is going to feel really good later on!

6:15am

I’ve been lying in bed for a while now, listening to the strong winds lifting and clattering the roof tiles, the house creaking and groaning. I’m sure I can hear dripping in the loft. I creep over to the window, lifting the blind. It is still pitch black outside, only the red lights of the telegraph tower on St Mary’s can be identified as they reach their way into the sky.

I have energy frustrating it’s way around my body but it is a little too dark for me to swim, on my own. Instead I sit on the sofa, reading, listening to the silent house. Silent except for the clock above the fireplace steadily tick-tocking it’s way towards 7am.

I am desperate to swim. Awkward tides and Christmas preparations have conspired to keep me from the sea the past two days.

Ten minutes later I have escaped the silent house, making my way down towards the quay. An inky-blue light silhouettes black clouds as they sweep across the bright moon.

The light of the Bishop Rock lighthouse sweeps gracefully clockwise over the Western rocks and marker beacons twinkle.

Surprisingly I meet a neighbour out walking, her torchlight making me jump. She too has been awake since the early hours and we chat and laugh about nocturnal habits.

As I walk along Veronica farm’s sandy track, all the world feels more alive. The senses are on high alert for strange and magical creatures that may lurk in the shadows.

When I reach the quay I leave my woolly bobble hat on, no swimming hat or goggles needed today, I won’t be diving down into the dark abyss.

The icy-cold water is dappled silver and black, pinching and prickling my skin. Flurried little waves splatter my face with salty spray as they are caught by the wind. I breaststroke around the harbour for no more than five minutes but it’s enough to get my cold water fix.

As I walk out across the shoreline, my feet sinking deeply into the soft wet sand, I notice my shadow. My moonshadow. How magical I think to myself.

This week has been a wonderful week for friendship.

On Friday three friends from St Mary’s travelled up to Bryher, meeting Ruthie and I for a swim. It’s such a treat for me to have company on my swims, when Ruthie leaves I will be back to solo exploration.

The weather forecast had been awful and the swim nearly postponed but in true wild women style we braved the gloom, found a relatively sheltered spot and went for it.

We chose to circumnavigate Hangmans Rock that sits between Bryher and Tresco. To extend the distance a little we started from the Bar, swimming up channel towards the rock and open water.

Our coloured hats bobbing along, the five of us were soon swimming alongside Bryher’s small fishing fleet, sensibly moored up out of the wind.

The current was steadily flowing against us but not so much as to stop the swim. Slowly but surly we edged our way around the side of Hangmans, it’s great gnarly barnacle-covered granite rising majestically from the sea.

As we approached the top end my conviction failed me. The current felt powerful and sucking as it funnelled it’s way past the rock.

“I’m not sure we will make it around” I said. Two turned back to swim the lower side. Anna in her usual determined way dismissed my wobble and struck strongly out towards the North. Ah well I thought, if she’s going I’ve got to too. So on went the three of us, into the swell and dark water.

And I’m so glad we did. As soon as we rounded the top end of the Rock, it’s black towering face watching wisely, the water calmed and we bobbed in wild delight.

Despite the numb fingers and toes, the swim home was straight forward, the tide carrying us back past the boats and buoys and into the beach at Bar.

On Saturday a few of us writing folk met with a plan forming for a writing group. Two hours later and buzzing with ideas and future projects that should hopefully support us all with our writing, we left each other, the next meeting date set.

As the year approaches it’s calender end, I think back to almost a year ago. I hadn’t met all these wonderful friends, but through swimming and writing I am lucky enough to be combining creativity, nature, well being and friendship. Here’s to next year, who knows what adventures are to be had.