Autumn has arrived on Bryher, dawn lights at about six and it is dark when I go to bed which means somewhere before nine.

The breeze is cooling and the air is fresh as we walk our early morning routine of checking the animals. Not yet cool enough for valleys of mist and watching our breath turn to puffs of smoke, but still the summer sultry mornings are past.

Autumn has always been my favourite season but even more so now we live here. The shortening days signal quieter times, a chance to get together with neighbours and chew over the busy summer. It’s a time of harvesting the last of the crops and stocking the store cupboards for winter.

Over the past few days, summer guests have experienced Scilly without the Scillonian, as she sits in the harbour at Penzance with broken engines. Island life is quite different without this ship to keep us connected to the mainland. In the winter we don’t enjoy her constant presence and getting off the islands can be tricky, expensive and time consuming. Shipping of frieght can also be disrupted for fairly long periods of time if the weather is bad.

I hold a cosy and somewhat romantic vision in my head of having to be self reliant and resourceful on an island, remote and isolated. Of having to batten down the hatches and make do and mend, using whatever food you have in the cupboard (admittedly this can lead to some rather interesting dishes).

So at this time of year I begin to freeze milk, bread, fruit and vegetables. Picking blackberries, chopping apples, and runner beans and making chilli jam.

I think this love of winter hoarding originates from a rather nostalgic memory of reading Brambly Hedge as a child where Jill Barklem writes

“It was a fine autumn. The blackberries were ripe, and the nuts were ready, and the mice of Brambly Hedge were very busy. Every morning they went out into the fields to gather seeds, berries and roots, which they took back to the Store Stump, and carefully stowed away for the winter ahead. The Store Stump was warm inside, and smelled deliciously of bramble jelly and rising bread, and it was already nearly full of food.”

The illustrations of the Store Stump with its tall wooden dresser filled with pots of jam, apples, pies and berries enchanted me as the story was read to me over and over again.

This escapism into stories of your childhood now brings fond memories of a time when life had little responsibility and days were occupied by play and dreaming.

Now when I’m picking vegetables in the soft amber light of an autumn morning I always remember the mice of Brambly Hedge and those warm and cosy days of childhood stories.

A little bit of escapism today is a swim from Great Par. The sea is silver and there is a big swell that roars in the distance, sending in frothy, lapping waves to the shore. The water somehow feels warm and refreshingly cool at the same time.

I intend to swim to the retreat of the little rocks of Merrick, but as I make my way out of the bay the waves are rolling in above me and the sun shines so brightly silver on the choppy surface that it dazzles my eyes. In the distance I can just make out the rocks and their black, looming silhouettes are being pounded by white spray as the swell breaks around them. I decide against being washed onto the unforgiving granite.

The movement and noise of the sea are making me feel on edge and I momentarily jump, heart beat quickening, as a sea monster drifts by…..oh no….silly me, it’s a frilly piece of seaweed….and breathe.

Loose strands of Thong weed hang from the surface, their buttons covered in spiral worms, cast like clay onto the leathery brown weed, dangle and it’s like swimming through an upside down floating forest.

A burst of sunlight illuminates the underwater world with beams of silver green light. I’m happy that I stayed in the bay, I’m content to float and drift and enjoy the colours and textures of the water and sea life around me.

The granite pebbled beach at Kitchen par, shaped in a small horse shoe curve, creates the perfect little cove for sitting and pondering, reading, painting and of course swimming. With your back sheltered by a bank of agapanthus, mallow and sea spinach you can find a sunny rock to perch upon and admire the imposing stone structures before you.

On the coast of Tresco, Cromwell’s castle, now set against a backdrop of mauve heather, but more impressive is Hangmans Rock. Called this in the civil war period when Scilly was a Royalist stronghold. The gibbit and noose that hangs at the summit now are a modern addition, however in Cromwell’s day the most ardent of Royalists were strung up on the rock as a warning to others by Admiral Blake.

Looking past the north ends of Tresco and Bryher is the inky horizon of the Atlantic. Even from here on a calm day the vast ocean has a feeling of wilderness and the power of a beast that sleeps.

I set out towards Hangmans, spotting a compass and blue jellyfish and many shoals of fish in varying sizes, swimming past strands of ropelike Mermaids Tresses.

The soaring columns of granite are layered with Black Tar lichen, the yellow ochre of Trentopohlia and further up from the tide line the Sea Ivory. These colours on the rocks are so typically Scilly, and very beautiful. I clamber up onto the rough granite rocks that mark the edge of Hangmans, I’d like to climb to the top and see the view but Sam and friend are rowing the punt alongside, so I wash back into the sea.

At the North end the water is oily black, swirling and ominous. The rock looks even bigger from our seals eye view, covered with the weather beaten lichen and threatening, but also rugged and wild and beautiful.

The current carries us on a free ride along the far side and from here we can look up the channel towards St Mary’s, past all the fishing boats and yaghts. We see Firethorn and a jet boat and the houses and pub of the North end from a completely new perspective.

A young shag, with his pale buff underbelly exposed, long neck extended and hooked beak skyward stands wings outstretched drying in the breeze. We get to with eight feet before he takes flight, paddling along the surface before lifting off.

Back through the forests of yellow Thong weed that softly caresses my limbs and onto the shore. A wonderful, wonderful experience.

Sitting at the South end of Bryher less than a mile away is Samson, once inhabited it’s only residents now are insects, seabirds and rats. It’s a favourite for exploring, at low tide long spits of sand create lagoons to play in and up on the hills sit two hundred year old ruins that inspire the imagination to dream of what life would have been like.

As is our habit, Sunday being a family day, we set off with friends in kayaks, the punt and me of course swimming. Its such a exciting feeling to be leaving one shore knowing you are landing on another. There’s no bright sunshine, the heat and light hidden behind thick grey cloud and the sea and sky are silver white.

We leave the busy boatyard behind and make our way along the edge of Samson Hill. Here the water is shallow and the limpet covered rocks, kelp, bladderwrack and sandy seabed is clearly visible through the emerald green water.

As we leave Bryher behind and begin to cross the channel the water temperature drops and the colour darkens to a deep bottle green blue.

I spot a few small compass jellyfish drifting below me and shoals of darting fish tack this way and that.

Between Yellow Rock and Puffin Island the swell and tide roll me around a little, not enough to move me far but we drift a little off course, finding ourselves missing the channel of weed free swimming. I am soon in a tangle with the slippery thong weed and have to do a rather ungraceful doggy paddle to push through it.

Glad to be free of the choking weed I swim on again to the sandy shores of Samson.

A dry down and quick picnic whilst the children hunt for shell treasure along the strandline of strewn shells, crisp weed and crabs.

They paddle and swim in the sheltered bay. Then for an explore of the ruins, the lichen covered granite walls now reclaimed by brambles, sea thrift and bracken.

From the highest point on the South Island you can see St Mary’s, Tresco, Agnes and Gugh, St Martins and the Eastern Isles, Bryher and the Norrad Rocks. Its a magical place to sit and let your thoughts drift away on the horizon.

I catch a lift back in the punt on our return to Bryher, the tide has now turned and the current on the Brow will be too much for me to go against and after a day off island it will feel good to have a cup of tea!

May 2015.

I left my job as a practice nurse, we sold our house and all moved into a tent in the garden of a very kind and accommodating friend.

August 2015.

A tearful but exciting goodbye to our family and friends as we boarded the plane to Scilly and began our new adventure on Bryher. Arriving at our new home Hillside Farm on a gloriously hot summer’s day, unpacking the containers that had been in storage for three months and standing in awe at the view from our front door.

August 2019.

Another beautiful sunny day. Four years into our dream of living on a small farm on this very special little island we now call home.

What an adventure it has been. We have learnt to breed pigs, I’ve watch piglets born. Calved cows, become a beekeeper and collected honey, learnt to drive a tractor, put up a poly tunnel, planted an orchard. I’ve eaten sea spaghetti, sea rocket, fat hen, pennywort and pineapple top. I’ve learnt to prune an apple tree, picked 2,380 courgette and 2,376 bags of spinach….and a lot more veg besides, but I won’t bore you with the figures.

I’ve learnt to live and work with my husband, started to paint again, begun writing and made so many new and interesting friends.

This afternoon I spent a little time on the most incredible boat with some inspiring folk from Cornwall. Their ship, and home is a 1946 herring drifter from Buckie in Scotland. A great and beautiful lady she is too, bursting at the seems with character and personality. Every nook and cranny is either a useful or beautiful space, the light, the smell all evocative of age and timber and a life at sea. The folk who inhabit and love her wanted to live a life not ruled by the grind of the rat race but to be adventurous, true to themselves and free. And they do, and it’s inspiring.

We have tried to do the same, live a life of adventure, interest and follow our dreams.

I have learnt to understand the tides and to live a life dictated by those tides, being patient and content. I have a greater appreciation for nature and how gentle our existence needs to be in order not to ruin those plants and creatures around us.

I have also learnt to swim in the sea, been stung by a jellyfish, swum with seals and travelled between islands using no other power than my arms and legs.

This evening I swim from Great Par. The sea changes in an instant from sun dazzled green to cloud covered silver grey. The gulls shriek noisily and in the distance there is the calming hush of swell on the Norad Rocks.

I dive straight down and skim along the seabed. The marbled, mottled Sand Gobies dart away from me, their shadows on the sand.

Rain hits the surface causing a misty grey spray to bounce from the sea and the sound and feel of the raindrops hitting my swimming hat remind me of popping candy.

The cloud and rain move on and the sunbeams dance through the emerald green once again, making my heart dance along with them. Jets of streaming silver bubbles flow from my fingertips as they cut through the sea.

It’s a day for diving and tumble turning and revelling in this wondrous underwater world.

Four years on and I feel like the luckiest person alive.

This evenings swim is not one of great challenge, or triumph but one of easy swimming and pleasure.

On such a tiny island out in the Atlantic you can experience almost all weathers in one day. This morning started out wet, breezy and chilly. Grey and un-inspiring, not tempting me to go for an early swim, also it’s veggie box day so a small mountain of vegetables to pick and deliver to St Mary’s before the tide empties from the channel.

By the time the afternoon drifts towards evening the sun has been shining and it’s a warm, sultry summer’s evening. The tide is approaching high tide with the sea lapping across the top of the quay, deep, clear turquoise green water now summons me.

The work for the day is done, the children are happy and not arguing, which for half way through the summer holidays is a minor miracle, so we decide to take the boat to Tresco for tea. This of course presents the perfect opportunity for a cross channel swim.

I haven’t had a longish swim for a while and every cell and sinue is desperate to be in the water, stretching and pulling; breathing and moving through the cool fluid sea.

The swim doesn’t disappoint. There are very few yachts to worry about, no pull of strong current to battle with and the temperature of the water is perfect. Subtle colours of greens and blues please the eye and mind when looking below the surface, above the pale golden orb of evening sun turns the water’s surface to liquid pewter.

I quickly leave the coast of Bryher behind and into view comes the tall cylindrical castle of Cromwells perched on the cliff edge of Tresco.

All to soon the seabed rises toward me, rocks and seaweed replace the brilliant green water and my feet hit the pebbly shore of Tresco. A beautiful swim and a great way to work up an appetite for tea…so to the pub!

Wind gusting 46mph, temp 18°c southerly.

To Rushy for a wild swim. The seed heads of hogweed, drying wild carrot and bracken, bob and dance, hurled this way and that in the gusty wind. Sharp eyed birds must be foraging on the first ripening blackberries as evidence of purple droppings lay on the sandy path.

The wind is warm on my face, my hair blows wildly and the towel flaps against my legs. In the distance the great rock of Mincarlo is being lost to a moving squall of sea and mist and rain. The skies darken and the sea becomes an iron grey and muddy green. Water slams against granite in dramatic foaming spray.

Heavy rain drops are blown hard against me and mottle the pale sand. The marram grasses of yellowing green are bent and bowed by the wind’s strength. It scratches my feet and shins as I walk through it toward the shoreline which today feels like a great life force of spuming foam and bubbles.

The sand shifts underfoot as each wave rolls in and drags out. As I become submerged in the swell I realise there is no point in trying to crawl or get my head in the water. The visibility is zero, just a churned up mix of seabed and chopped weed. I breast stroke out lifting and sinking in the grey waves. The noise of the water hisses and wooshes in my ears and sand and salt is driven into my mouth and found crunching through my teeth. Weed and sand finds its way through my swimming costume to prickle and irritate the skin.

I am sucked back and sent surging forward but never feel scared, just invigorated. I try a short swim across the bay but really it is more fun just to swirl and wash about within this great beast. My body is wrapped and entangled in long thin straps of thong weed as if I’ve been dressed in golden brown and green ribbon.

The rain begins to hammer hard against the surface adding yet another texture to the rippled, flurried water as thousands of silver droplets bounce and burst across the steely grey.

As the rain blows through a beam of sunlight dazzles the sea again with silver light. The white foam now crisp and brilliant against the emerald and turquoise sea. The magic of the sea is it’s ever changing state.

Come on an adventure into the wild. A tale of deep dark seas, rolling waves and swimming seals.

A sudden urge to experience the open seas around Bryher, to explore, be adventurous and push my boundaries had me planning a swim from Rushy Bay, around Droppy Nose Point and into Great Par.

Graham, Sam and his buddy Benjamin were to be my support crew on kayaks, there to be moral support, offer words of encouragement and if I whimp out a lift to shore.

The evening is dull, silver white light and cloud hide the evening sun. The wind is picking up and it feels as if a storm is brewing. As I stand down at Rushy awaiting the kayakers, the cool glass clear water is rolling in, steadily creeping towards me as the tide edges up the beach.

I can see across to my right our planned route. Through Stony Par, home to Bryher’s seal population and out around the iconic seal and elephant rocks of Droppy Nose Point.

Someone once said, and maybe it’s said too flippantly, that you should do one thing everyday that scares you. As l stand there, anticipating what will be my most challenging swim yet, I wonder if scary is the right word. Surely it’s not good for you to be scared. Challenged, thrilled, pushed out of your comfort zone maybe but not scared. Today I’m certainly pushing myself.

We set off, the four of us on an adventure. The swell is noticeable and the current pushes and pulls us as we navigate our way over the rocky reef that seperates Rushy and Stony Porth. At low tide this is completely exposed, now there is about three feet of water running over it.

As we make our way into seal territory I can feel my adrenaline rising. The seabed below me is full of granite boulders and waving weed and I keep my eyes sharp and wide, on the lookout for dark shapes moving around me.

It is only when I stop and look around that I can spot the seals, watching us. A small seal is a fair way off and this is fine, I can cope with that. I swim on keeping the point of Droppy Nose directly ahead. Suddenly a call from Graham causes me to stop and I realise that there are two or three seals much nearer to us. “One behind” shouts Sam. As I turn in the water I am faced by the huge head of a large bull seal. His deep, dark liquid eyes seem to stare right through my soul. He is only about six feet away and I suddenly feel very tiny in the water and scared. Really scared. “Shit shit” I shout in a voice muffled by bubbles. I’m not sure I can do this, I feel that I want to get out of the water as fast as possible.

How disappointed with myself would I feel if I gave into my fears and got out. I decide, battling with the voices in my head, to keep going. I force myself to put my head back in the water and keep swimming. Keep breathing, keep swimming.

The coast of Bryher slowly slips along as we reach the point of leaving the bay and heading out around the end of the rocks and into the unknown. Again my fears take a hold. The water becomes very cold, it also gets much, much darker below me and the swell begins to tower above me. It is only the encouragement of Graham and the boys, and the fact that I don’t feel like swimming back through the seals, that forces me on and out into the wild seas.

In the winter time the raging seas crash over these rocks and those images run through my head now as we round the point. It looks stunning from my seals eye view. White water is breaking over the rocks, leaving an icy blue swell rolling and swirling at its base. I try to stop for a brief moment to take in the landscape around me.

My swim is not graceful, it’s about surviving. I try to remember to breathe, roll and be as efficient in the water as possible but the waves lift and move me about like a cork and the rocks and weed loom out of the dark water, causing me to catch my breath.

The coastline continues to slip past and soon we are back at Merrick Island and I feel a sense of relief. I have been here before, I can do this now, almost home.

My swimming becomes rythmical again, I concentrate on my stroke and begin to enjoy the swim.

As we reach the shore of Great Par I have a feeling of triumph, of achievement and pure relief to be able to get out of the water. I feel sea sick, tired and the adrenaline rush has left me shaky. Apparently a little seal followed me all the way and as I turn and look back to where I’ve been, there she sits, head bobbing looking back at me.

I can’t say that I enjoyed it, not in that tranquil, mesmerising, meditative way that many of my swims are. But it was special, wild, beautiful and I’ve broken down some more fears.

A gusty north westerly wind decides to battle with the paper in my notebook, flicking and flapping it about. My hair blows wildly in a tangled mess across my face, the noise of the wind buffets my ears.

Heavy rain last night has left the tracks and paths around Bryher washed rough with littered rocks and sandy gravel. Deep, water riven channels and puddles the remnants of the summer storm. The plants and bracken, once tall, now lay beaten and windswept on the ground.

Down at Great Par the sky and sea are an ominous green grey colour, dark and threatening. A summer sqwall has blown everything out of its hot sunkissed slumber.

Racing white horses leap at the dark rocks of Merrick, Droppy Nose and Gillick, sending foaming spray high into the air. Even in the relative shelter of the bay, the water’s surface is flurried and irritated by the wind.

Two swallows swoop and skim over the strandline of rolled thong weed, washed ashore in great heaps. A bumble bee flies out to sea, curious little creature, I wonder where she thinks she’s going, what could make her want to be near the water, which with one wild wave could swipe her from the air and drown her.

It’s nice to feel the strong air on my skin, refreshing, chilling, thrilling. My swim is a salty assault on the senses. The noise of the water splashing and sloshing around me, the taste and smell of salt in my nostrils and mouth, the rolling grey waves that lift me up and drop me down. The only silence is at the seabed when I dive down to escape the world above. I long to be swimming further out, towards the spray and the rocks but my sense of self preservation reminds me that this world is not truly mine and I mustn’t become complacent with this powerful creature. Instead I swim parallel to the shore before doubling back on myself towards the beach.

It feels like an autumn swim, is this the beginning of the end of Summer? The blackberries are slowly ripening on the brambles, the crops on the farm are slowing their abundant growth and the daylight hours are shortening. It feels as if something in the air changed last night and I love that sense of a new season about to begin.

Overcast, temp 17°c wind 5 mph.

After a heavy downpour during the early hours of dawn, the morning air is mild and humid. Bryher is settled under a blanket of Sunday morning stillness and cosy slumber.

A small yacht lays stranded on a sand bar mid channel, between Bryher and Tresco, leaning alarmingly to its starboard side. It is waiting with enforced patience for the tide to return and lift it afloat.

There is an overcast, silvery light, billowing grey clouds with swathes of purple sweeping rain banking the horizon. The sea is silky smooth, a liquid form of silvery green.

Today is going to be my longest sea swim to date. I am no longer feeling the nerves of anxiety but instead the fluttery feeling of anticipation of the adventure, the unknown, the unpredictability of the challenge.

With a small group of swimmers from St Mary’s, a host of kayaks as support, Sam being one of them, we gather at Appletree bay on Tresco. Appletree is a long sweeping beach of soft white sand, banked by tall rushes. It faces westward towards Bryher, Samson, the rocks of Mincarlo and the Atlantic beyond.

My plan is to swim with the group to Samson and then head on to Rushy Bay with Sam. We set off in a flurried haze of arms, feet and silver bubbles. Soon each has found their swimming stroke, their space and their own thoughts and watery world to be emersed within.

The sea between Appletree and Puffin Island is fairly shallow, the sandy seabed dotted with occasional clumps of bladderwrack where shoals of tiny fish hide within.

A compass jellyfish floats by and I momentarily break my rhythm to watch as it’s creamy coloured body, marked with brown points like a compass, glides past me.

I notice the water’s surface is bouncing and rippled, the sky above me a lead grey colour and it is raining heavily again. The kayakers pull up their hoods and hunch their shoulders but it makes no difference to me and I swim on happily.

The seabed darkens as I approach the rocky island of Puffin. Beds of kelp cover the sand, a hermit crab scuttles for cover. Shadows of dark fish dart beneath me, a shoal of tiny fish flow quickly in front of me like a ribbon of silver.

Around into the channel between Puffin and Samson, long golden strands of thong weed trail in the tide, I think of mermaids with beautiful flowing locks and lions manes. The light and colours create a fantasy underwater world.

The rain has stopped, the water calms again, my feet barely brush the sand of Samson and I decide to turn and head for Rushy before the chill sets in.

Out once again into the deeper channel between Samson and Rushy. I am swimming against the incoming tide and there is a slight swell that lifts and rolls me gently….do I really feel a little sea sick? My tongue is feeling numb and rough with all the salt.

The north end of Samson disappears and is replaced by open ocean. As we pass Yellow Rock the swell subsides and I can once again find those long, rythmical strokes where your movement, breath and sea feel all at one.

The sand appears again and gradually gets closer as we reach the shallows of Rushy Bay, we’ve made it, I’ve made it! Three islands in one day.

We’ve now returned to Bryher from our adventure in the lake District. I have swum a few times since getting home, not written about them, but just enjoyed drinking in that sense of comfort and ease that being at home brings. Enjoying the familiar salty smell and taste of seawater, the movement of the tide and swell and the colours and clarity of the sea.

Over the past couple of weeks I have become more aware of people reading the blog. Some people have asked if I’m Ruth, the wild swimmer, the sea swimming lady, the blogger. I find it makes me utter a nervous laugh and I feel self conscious.

The very first entry on the blog was as much about my writing journey as it was about my wild swimming adventures. I guess this is continuing that journey, allowing what I write to be read, enjoyed (hopefully) and scrutinized.

As I now sit once again on the granite edged shoreline of Great Par, I worry that readers will become bored of yet another description of a swim, another day on Bryher.

For me though, every day, each swim is a unique experience to be captured within my memory and on paper as much as possible. This swim will be completely different to the last swim here. The air is warmer, the gentle breeze a little more to the west. The sea has changed colour, the sand and pebbles have shifted. The wildlife will have changed and how I feel is different.

Today a roaring ground swell far out amongst the Norad rocks provides a constant noise. Oyster catchers and swift skim over the waters surface, chirping and peeping.

I look out towards the rocks of Merrick Island and wonder if I can make it out there alone today.

However my mind is instantly captured as I step into the water as shoals of what I guess to be mullet dart and circle in front of me.

The pinky grey fish, some seem to be nearly a foot long, glide in and out of the sunbeams, occasionally one breaks the waters surface with a “plop” of bubbles and ripples.

It brings back memories of a swim I had last year. Almost to the same day and in the same bay, a mass of these fish swum around me, circling in such great numbers it was like a wall of fish before me. I remember being completely entranced by the wild spectacle of it, their beauty and grace and their apparent lack of concern regarding my presence in the water with them.

The fish today however are much more cautious. As soon as I approach them they dart out of eyesight and remain elusive no matter how still I try to be. Occasionally a grey shadow moves through the water in front of me before once more dissapering into the green gloom.

The plankton that must bring these fish into feed have caused the water to be a misty, eery shade of green and visability is quite poor.

I swim out towards the little rocks of Merrick. Gulls, oyster catchers and shags line the ochre stained granite. A seals head glistens as the sunlight catches the slick wet creature, just briefly before it too disappears.

Everyone wants their space today. I have mine out here in the ocean. Despite the distant roaring swell, the wind in my ears and the seabirds calling, my head is silent. Captured only be the enchanting and eluring feel of the water around me and the sky above me.

No great adventure today to write about but certainly not a boring swim. It maybe a simple swim, but the simple things in life are often the best.

Writing is such a simple act. It takes only a pencil and a piece of paper and yet it does so much to enhance the world. For readers who loose themselves in other worlds and other people’s lives, to writers like me who loose themselves in trying to capture these other worlds, and what better world than that of nature to be lost within.