6:30am.

Framed by the old wooden sash windows that reach floor to ceiling, the view of the lake from our room is silent, still and stunningly beautiful.

Pale amber silvery light, bleeds through the cloud and reflects across the dark water. Only the sound of chirping bird call breaks the silence of early morning.

Ullswater lies flat and dark. Reflections of large oak and beech trees edge it’s banks. The monumental hill of Arthur’s Pike rises steeply from the waters edge, as if pinched up from clay.

The lake calls to every part of me. The skin seeks to feel it’s cool softness, the heart wants to absorb the stillness, peace and natural life around me and the mind yearns to know that feeling of wellness that starting the day with a free and wild swim brings.

8:30am

I’m booked onto a swim across the lake, a distance of one mile. The expertise of guide Colin Hill will provide route and technique advise.

I am not phased by the temperature, a tropical 18° but the darkness of the lake may cause those demons of the imagination to emerge.

No need to worry though, my months of swimming in weed and deep seawater stands me in good stead. As we leave the rocky shoreline “Skellies”, small fish found only in Ullswater, dart around my legs.

The water is a dark, peaty, mossy green colour with nothing to see except the bubbles from my breath. In contrast to the nothingness, as I raise my head to the side to breathe, the world is split in two. The deep dark below and the soaring landscape above. The hills and peaks tower majestically, riven with deep valleys, their craggy sides rise almost vertically as they reach toward the sky.

It’s a different swim from those at home. I am concentrating on technique, breath and stroke. I realise just how much of my swimming around Bryher is taken up with watching the sea life around me.

A slight need to compare myself to those that swim further or faster than me begins to creep into my mind. I squash it. Wild swimming is not about distance, power or style. It is about enjoying, feeling, experiencing the wild waters. It’s about mindfulness and headspace and living in the moment. Someone once said, don’t believe in the wisdom of children, nor in the wisdom of the old. We are never so wise as when we live in this moment.

I swam across Ullswater, got the certificate and earnt my cooked breakfast, but I also learnt alittle bit more about me and why I love to swim.

There is definitely a sense of safety in numbers when it comes to sea swimming adventures. Being alone in that vast wild space can make you feel very small and vulnerable. The solitude can be exhilerating and cathartic but also daunting and obstructive. That feeling of aloneness and insecurity often stops me swimming into wilder, unknown waters. My sense of self preservation has always been high, I’m not one for rollercoasters and bungee jumping.

However, today my wonderfully wild and fearless friend Anna is visiting Bryher and she soon has me swimming out of Great Par, past the rocks of Point of Bar, and through the Merrick Island Neck.

The day is overcast, the sea a steely, deep blue. No dancing sunbeams to distract the mind. As the sea grass, long, green and flowing, reaches up from out of the deep gloom to grab at my limbs, my imagination sparks and a rising feel of panic takes hold. I am caught in a tidal pull of my own making, to swim on and explore or return to the known safety of the shore.

We stop, breathe, take in the world around us. Anna encourages me to continue, so with some inner words of gentle persuation we swim on.

A group of rocks, part of Merrick Island, loom out of the sea, breaking the surface around which the sea swirls and rolls. Up we clamber, clinging to the harsh, sharp granite studded with limpet and barnacles.

A sense of elation and relief floods through me. Once more into the swell, floating like corks, we swim across to a larger stack of rock. I am now enjoying this, the rise and fall of the swell over the rocks, the waving weeds and the freedom of swimming from one tiny landmass to another.

We rest upon the rocks, like the gulls and shags around us, wings overstretched in the warm air. The swirling waters froth and slap around our feet, there’s not another soul insight. Anna describes it perfectly, “out at sea, upon these rocks, we are not mum or writer, wife or worker. It is just you, the sea, the rock.” Four hundred metres from shore and we feel like we are in another world.

A steady swim back to the bay and we leave behind a special place. I’m already yearning to explore some more, just maybe not on my own.

The blue skies appear to stretch on forever with barely a wisp of cloud to be seen. The days are searingly hot, it beats down on us and the animals, causing all to seek shade whenever possible. The slightest breeze is a relief.

The harvest times you imagine, endless summers of reaping the rewards of months of growing are upon us.

The air is hot, dry and dusty. The old potato lifter clatters and clangs noisily and clouds of dust coat the inside of my mouth and settle on my clothes and skin.

The grass tracks and surrounding heathland of Bryher are now crisp and golden. The fields of once bright yellow marigolds are scorched and brown.

We are digging in the field named Lower Gerry and only a few metres of sandy heath and a sparce pittisporum hedge separates us from the sea at Great Par. The soil is so sandy and fine it slips through my fingers like warm powder.

Graham drives the tractor and I pick up the spuds, by the time we’ve done two rows I am dreaming of the cool, refreshing sea.

My friend Nellie is staying for a while, together we head down the little road towards Great Par. The roadside alongside the little granite cotrages of Glenhope are now towering with beautiful agapanthus, their blue matched by the blue of sky and sea in the distance.

White calling gulls soar overhead and little white sails drift on the hazy blue horizon. The crystal clear water is shimmering and the sunbeams flood down through the water and ripple and bounce on the seabed.

It is satisfyingly cool and smooth and I can feel the stickiness and dust of work wash away. We swim out past rocks lined with gulls and green beds of bladder wrack.

It’s a shame to leave the water, but as we stroll back to the farm, leaving others to take our place in the sea, the feeling of warm sun on cool skin is blissful.

Once again the skies are cloudless blue and the sun is beating down. The farm is quickly turning from the lush green that it was a few days ago, to a crisp, brown dustbowl.

Our lovely friend Clare leaves us tomorrow, she’s been here a month, helping on the farm and falling in love with Bryher. We thought we would take her for a picnic. A super special picnic at the bottom of the sea! Luckily it’s spring tides, the water in the channel is about 0.7m deep thus allowi g us to wade out through the warm shallows, and find a picturesque spot on the sandbank to sit and eat our lunch.

The sand of the sand bank was so soft we could dig our toes into it. A light breeze kept the air temperature pleasant and just in front the sea sparked and twinkled as it flurried by.

A myriad of folk paddle, fish for shrimp and kayak. Gulls search the shallows and drying clumps of weed for forage. In the sand they leave their footprints.

After our picnic of homemade herb pitta with Hillside salad, tomatoes and kale pesto, I couldn’t resist a quick dip in the lagoon between our sandbank and Samson Hill.

The water so shallow, warm and clear. It felt like I was in the Mediterranean not the Atlantic. Strands of sea spaghetti slicked along my limbs flowing long and gracefully in the tidal current.

Such a wonderful way to enjoy these islands, always somewhere new to explore. Leaving the shrimpers to find their supper, I headed home past all the yaghts stranded on the sand.

My first thought as I awake at 4:30 this morning, was of my Dad’s handwriting. How he would have signed his name on my birthday card, as today is my 40th birthday.

The morning light is the softest pink and mauve there could be, an artist with a palette of watercolours couldn’t have painted the sky any softer. There is an orchestra of bird song, chirping sparrows, cooing doves, lyrical blackbirds and calling gulls.

After picking the veggies I head down to the quay for an early birthday swim. It is a gentle morning, its high tide and a fisherman sets off for a day of checking lobster pots. The sea laps the shore in such a tranquil and hypnotic rhythm.

I feel a sudden and powerful wave of sadness as I sit in the warm sunshine. It’s my first birthday since Dad died. I remember birthdays in the past, bbqs at the house where I grew up, beach parties at Widemouth Bay and the treat of a Chinese takeaway.

I’m trying so hard not to be melancholic but as I wade into the cool water I begin to cry. I really cry, my hot tears mix with the cool salty seawater and for a few moments all I can do is tread water as my breath is erratic and the emotion takes over.

After a while I swim slowly out, deep breaths underwater and the sea is gentle with me. It allows me to just be. Everything is peaceful and still.

I love the way the sea gives me time for myself, a place to free the thoughts and feelings that I have inside me.

When I return home a pile of cards and pressies are waiting for me. Now I feel I can face them. I’ve had that special moment to remember, now is for the present and to be around the family and friends that I love.

Such a poetic and beautiful image, and one I can not take credit for. On my sundrenched wander back from my swim at Great Par this afternoon, I stopped to talk to visitors.

They asked how the water was, I said, utterly blissful. A liquid green like no other, full of dancing sunbeams. A cloudless blue sky above my head and luxuriously cool to wash away the hot dust of the day.

For several days now the seals have been singing, far out in the Norad rocks. Their song is a ghostly, haunting tune of eeiry beauty. It echoes across the sea and sandy bays and drifts throughout the island.

Simaler to a wolf howling or a siren of the sea luring young sailors to their deaths, the seals call to each other during mating season.

It is an enchanting, captivating sound and causes the heart to ache for the sea.

The visitor commented that he thought the sound was the wind in the cormorants wings. I’m not sure which image is more wistful or beautiful, the seals in love or the outstretched wings of a sunbathing cormorant as the wind plays through its wings.

Bryher truly is a fairy-tale isle, it captures your heart, lives in your soul. The waters ebb and flow. Little isle of Bryher, no lovelier place you’ll know.

Today’s weather, a complete contrast to yesterday’s heavy, driving rain, is the most languid, warm midsummers day. Hazy blue skies that lay a fine blue filter over Castle Bryher and the western rocks. The warm air slows the heart and calms the head, the water at Green Bay is glassy, still and clear. As I wade into the shallows the sunbeams dance enticingly on the sand.

Shoals of tiny fish dart and swim in unison through the bright green and brownish yellow of sea lettuce and bladder wrack. As I swim, my shadow joins me and together we glide with graceful strokes, causing sparkling ripples to follow our wake.

The day is glorious and as near perfect as you could imagine. It makes me think and chuckle at what a friend said to me yesterday as we sat around the kitchen table, sheltering from the dampness outside. She commented that I was only writing about the lovely weather and not the rain and wind. So I thought today I would remember and reflect upon those harsh winter days of toe curling, breath catching swimming, and re-read one of my first swim diary entries.

So here’s a little story, of wild and cold winter days. When no sun was there to warm my skin and each dip a battle with the waves.

February 8^th 2019.

Gale force winds and heavy rain were forecast and they have arrived. The buoys in the children’s treehouse are swinging violently, the roof tiles lift and clatter, the wind howls in the chimneys.

But the sea is exciting, fun, lively. The sand stings my arms and legs as it blasts me, blown with force in the wind. I quickly skip down to the water. The visibility is surprisingly good, not a ground swell then. The waves are created purely by the wind so once I am submerged I can quite clearly see the seaweeds whipping along in the tide.

I duck and dive through the waves that rise above me, grey with white, frothy tops. I can’t quite get a rhythm with my breathing and I am often met by a face full of salty swell. I am joyous, elated even. It’s been fun to be pushed and washed around. My senses are blasted by noise, taste and energetic beauty.

In all this liveliness my head is calmed and I return to the wet, sandy shoreline sated.

In all honesty it is delightful and idyllic to be swimming in warm, calm beautiful seas. However, I think I would quickly become bored and sluggish without those stormy, challenging winter swims. They touch the soul in a different way and are equally as stunning as these summer days, and when they return I will not be sad.

Enjoy the weather every day that it’s here, for the next season will bring new pleasures and new challenges.

Two great days of swimming and island life. Yesterday I met up with friends on St Mary’s and once again hopped aboard the tandem, in the “stoker” position (the back). A beautiful cycle out through the town, up to the telegraph mast and then twisting along the little lanes to Watermill Cove.

The little cove is as beautiful as it’s name suggests. At low tide the white sand is revealed and stretches far out into the water, providing an almost Caribbean vista.

We have all gathered, nine of us, in various swimming attire and a rainbow of fluorescent swim floats and caps, to swim out into the channel between St Mary’s and St Martin’s to a marker buoy called Hatts.

I feel apprehensive and excited but not daunted. This will be the furthest out into deep water I have swum and my first time swimming to a marker. I’m wondering what it will be like, maybe all flowing with weed, strong currents, colder than usual? Will I make it out there and back, the distance being 1.2km?

With a fizz of excitement we all get swimming and strike out into the deeper, darker water.

I am surprised at how unafraid I feel. Even when we swim across a tiny rocky island, banked by flowing kelp and towering bladder wrack, I don’t feel paniked or want to turn back. I am determined to reach the buoy. Maybe a little bit of peer pressure is at work, but I genuinely loved the swim into the choppy water.

The water, although a deep blue, was full of light from the sun and millions of tiny plankton are illuminated. It makes me imagine a giant blue whale, feasting on the tiny creatures, although I try to swallow as few as possible!

It’s a feeling of pure elation and pride when I reach the buoy and haul myself up, rather ungracefully, to balance on the floating marker. A huge smile and joyous heart light up my soul. We all have a go on the buoy, laughing and playing, jumping and diving.

The swim back was just as wonderful, and once everyone had reached the beach and dried off, a feast of ginger cake, flapjack and tea was much appreciated.

Today, a very different but just as beautiful swim. After all the chores of the day have been completed and the children return from school, we pack up a picnic and head out in our little boat Enys.

The evening is as perfect an evening on Scilly as you can get. Cloudless blue skies, hot sunshine and the softness sea breeze. A fitting day for the summer solstice.

I had intended to swim at sunrise but a mountain of picking and changeover in the cottages prevented that. Yes! We are up at first light picking vegetables!

However, I’m secretly glad now because I have just enjoyed the most refreshing and stunningly beautiful swim off the coast of Samson.

Samson island is an uninhabited island with beaches to challenge the Maldives.

Martha splashes and swims with me, Sam rows around in the tender.

The sea is such a clear green, I can even see the footprints of sea birds that have combed the low tide sand.

Pretty little shells, limpet, periwinkle and topshells are all that lay on the powder soft sand below me. Martha wades along a little way in front and disturbs the sand. The sparkles of silver float around me as if I were in a snow globe, all shaken up.

We all dry off in the warm evening sun and tuck into our picnic tea as the sun begins to set on the western horizon. It’s days like these that we remember why it is we love it here.

At first light there is only silence and silver. The early morning mists drift in and the islands sink away. The air is damp and still.

I walk out to Droppy Nose at high tide and watch as six seals lounge and laze in the calm waters.

A large, white, three masted tall ship ghosts into the channel between St Mary’s and Samson, calling the souls of sailors past to join it.

The colours are monochrome, shades of grey seep into silver then fade to whiteness. There is tranquillity in abundance.

My swim from the quay is silky smooth, the water a clear, glass-like green. Not a breath of wind to disturb the water’s mirrored surface, no current to pull my limbs. A clean, gliding swim of pure delight.

As I reach the shallows I tumble turn and dive, causing silver efferesant bubbles to flow around me. If I could giggle underwater I would.

The light is breaking through the cloud with hints of blue and warmth of the day to come.

Another perfect morning on Bryher.

It’s been weather worthy of June today, sunshine, deep blue skies and a warm gentle breeze. Twinkling turquoise seas and a pretty little sailing boat, it’s white sail perfect against the shades of blues and greens. It slowly and silently made it’s way around the tip of Tresco and up the channel towards Green Bay. I wonder where it’s come from? Maybe lands afar with tales of sea monsters and mermaids and endless days at sea.

So gentle this little sailing boat seemed, in no rush to be anywhere.

It reminds me to slow down, to stop and absorb the world around me.

I take my time walking down the beach, slowly and gently. My feet sink into warm sand, the tiny shells and pebbles press into the soft underside of my feet. The coldness of the silky water wraps itself through my toes and over my ankles. Slowly creeps up my calf, my knees and thighs…and then I’m in. Each step into the water is a step into a free world of coolness and wildness and bliss.

Crabs scuttle along the seabed. No jellyfish seen today. Further out across the bay, past other little sailing boats and punts, bobbing buoys on weed covered ropes. Here begins the strong pull of the incoming tide as it floods into the channel from the southward end.

A free ride, I swim with the tide towards Bar. Underneath me I can see the weeds flowing along the sand. I reach the Bar and put my feet into the shallow water, like anchors, to stop me being swept around and down towards the North.

My feet drag through the sand and the current is so strong it rolls and swirls over my arms like a green river, making whirlpools and bubbles in my wake.

It’s with a good strong swim I make my way back up along the coast towards the shelter of the quay. Around the forests of weed are pools of warm water and washes of cold as the incoming tide mixes with the sunwarmed low water.

I know I will sleep well tonight, as I always do after a wild swim, with a great sense of satisfaction in taking time to slow down, be gentle, feel the environment and go with the flow.