In December 1972, the Apollo 17 crew took an image of Earth from 29,000 km into space. It was known as the Blue Marble image and has become one of the most recognised images of Earth.

It has been a thought provoking week on the farm. We are involved with a project run by Duchy College and Plymouth University, studying carbon levels on farms and how the carbon emissions and storage on farms impacts the planet. Our farm is part of the research looking at soil sampling, measurements of carbon storage and hopefully we can learn how we can improve our land both in terms of production, carbon storage and lessen our human impact on the planet.

I also have been watching the television series Earth from Space, where they have been using detailed satellite images to track human impact on the Earth.  This has been shockingly illustrating the negative effect we have on the wildlife and natural environment of our world. I did go to bed feeling quite disgusted to be human. However, I read a quote from Marcel Proust where he said

“The real voyage of discovery consists not so much in seeking new territory, but possibly in having new sets of eyes.”

It could be so easy to become despondent about the hopelessness of environmental challenges and feel unable to change anything, or, we can all try to make small changes that may have a bigger impact. So as a family we have discussed one or two things we can do to help. Our new challenges are to reduce our plastic use by buying block soap and shampoo from sources that don’t use palm oil and to stop using palm oil in our food that comes from unsustainable sources.

On the farm we are investigating the possibility of getting a large composter to make more organic matter from the islands waste products, therefore reducing our need to ship waste, contribute to land-fill and subsequently improve our soils and its carbon storage. Also to increase our rainfall water storage to help in the dry months and reduce the pressure on the boreholes.

Returning to the Blue Marble image, 71% of Earth’s surface is water and the ocean holds 96.5% of all of Earths water. The human body is 60% water; the brain is 73% water. Water is essential to our existence. Wallace Nichols began the Blue Marble project nearly 30 years after the Apollo 17 crew took that iconic image of Earth. This is his project;

“Get a blue marble, any size. Hold the blue marble in front of you at arm’s length, and look at it. That’s what Earth looks like from a million miles away: a small, blue, fragile, watery dot. Think of someone you’re grateful for, when was the last time you told them that you appreciate them? Take the marble with you and give it to the person you thought of. Tell them the story of what this marble represents-both our blue planet and your gratitude. It’s a reminder to us all to be grateful, for each other, and for our beautiful world.” Blue Mind.

This story and project, is a hopeful, optimistic and inspiring way of encouraging us all to do our little bit to help look after the wonderful world in which we live.

When is swim I find it similar to meditation. It is a chance to breathe and to re-set my mind and body, I come out of the water able to see problems in a clearer way. As soon as I dive down into the water my whole body is forced to think only of the breath, the movement of the swim and the water and nature around me.

Today the sea at Quay is calm and silvered, glassy green. The air has a mild, almost sultry promise of rain as the dark grey clouds gather on the western horizon, sending Bishop Rock into steely darkness. The stark white morning light reflects on the water’s surface of the Tresco channel. The sea is beautifully smooth to swim through; it silks over my body.

In the middle of the bay, I raise my head above the water line and see that it has started to rain, the glass-like balls bouncing of the grey surface, dancing and rippling, themselves like tiny marbles. All around me and within me is water, this most precious, beautiful substance. I think of that blue marble and how lucky we are to have it.

5:30 am, air temperature 10 degrees, 10 mph easterly wind.

The sky and sea appear to be on fire, the hot colours of red, pink, orange and yellow are streaking across the morning dawn. The island is quite, a fishing boat sits patiently alongside the quay, rust red canvas sail barely moving in the slight breeze.

In the distance towards St Agnes, the Trinity House ship Galatea is lit up with twinkling lights. Trinity House are regular visitors to Scilly, their job is to carry out hydrographic surveys and to develop, maintain and examine the shipping aids to navigation, such as the channel markers and Bishop Rock Lighthouse. Trinity House began during the reign of Henry eighth in 1514 to regulate pilotage on the Thames.

I enter the water from the quay steps and it is a sudden emersion into the darkness, in contrast to the rainbow sky above me. The cold instantly knocks all sleepiness from my bones, my skin stings and tingles and my breath catches in my chest. A quick blast of swimming around the quay, back again, and up and down parallel to the shore, and then out, with numb toes, to scamper back and start the day.

The light has already changed and I feel privileged to have seen that amazing sky.

It is a perfectly still Sunday morning, no wind at all and the sun is shining brightly, even at 6:30am. Sam and I have fed the animals and whilst he picks his way over the stones for treasure, I now sit upon the rocky slope that banks around the coast at Stony Porth.

Droppy Nose Point to my right stands tall, a monument of sea carved granite in the sunshine. Oyster catchers are noisily peep peeping, their bright colours of black, white and orange, stand out clearly in the bright, crisp light. The granite rocks are a deep peaty, speckled brown as the tide retreats, leaving tiny yellow periwinkles seeking cover in the wet heaps of seaweed.

The sun warms my back. The water is glass-like and calm, seals lounge on their tummies and bob gently in the bay, there is the occasional snort of air as they surface. There is about nine of them here this morning and I am hoping to swim with them. They watch me closely as I slowly tip toe into the shallows.

The water is clear green, trees of bladder wrack rise up around me and the seabed is an enchanting mix of granite pebbles, weeds and sand.  In the distance the rocks that divide Stony Porth and South Stony are lined with shags, stood to attention in rows on the horizon.

One seal is curious enough to stay and watch me, whilst the others move slowly further out. I stay in the relatively shallow water, I feel quite vulnerable and very conscious that I am in their world, and out of mine. As soon as my feet are off the sand I feel that sense of moving from my comfort zone to their comfort zone. However, the beauty of these magnificent animals, their dark pool-like eyes and dog-like features are captivating. I very slowly, trying hard to make barely a ripple, float and paddle my way towards the little seal. It remains about 40 feet away but we exchange gazes as we both bob on the watery horizon. Neither of us are frightened but neither ventures any closer.

There is only the gentle lapping of the water on the rocky shore and the bird calls, otherwise total peace.

A curlew flies past to break our gaze, I gradually make my way back to the shore and as I sit and dry myself in the sun, the little seal watches and I wonder if next time he may come closer.

My lovely friend Clem Davies wrote in his book of poems, Magic in My Eyes, a poem for Sampy the Seal;

“From under the gorsy hill of Samson, Long granite arms extend into the ocean, by Droppy Nose point a wildlife heaven, with rounded rocks lies a sheltered haven. Gathering a white-haired chest of sand, where reddish kelp holds fast to the strand, swirling endlessly over living things, till storm-torn freedom a new life brings. Then the seaweed garland on the shore, is a dwelling for many creatures more, Sampy the seal raised beautiful calves, till nylon net left deep white scars. Now this lonely lagoon is her home, for Sampy has lost all need to roam, at present her pension is solitude, that’s paid in crab and fishy food. A rhythmic couch of seaweed fronds, or sea-rounded rocks rest upon, and forever-changing skies and seas, are all arranged to life at ease. Yet still her curiosity abounds, so when she overhears human sounds, or smells their scent heavy on the air, Sampy instantly becomes aware. Look and you may see her whiskered head, or swirls as she enters her seaweed bed, her swift movements are part of the charm, for below the surface all is calm.”

7:30 am. The calm and silent stillness of the morning is broken by the constant chatter and song of bird call. As I sit outside the farmhouse door, the colours of the sky and sea are silver grey and the dark silhouettes of the islands appear to float in neither sea or sky, they mark the only horizon. Bishop Rock is shrouded in a dark sea mist of grey rain and the Round Island fog horn sounds. I sit under the silver edged cloud as the sun attempts to escape its cover. There is not a breath of wind, complete stillness.

Even at this early hour the bumble bees work hard upon the violet blue Echiums. All around the farm and little tracks of Bryher lay the discarded remnants of snail shells. The snail long since eaten by the hungry thrush, feeding its young, the crushed and broken shells are strewn about in great numbers.

The thrush is a great friend to the farm in May, surprisingly bold, they hop and spring along with us as we dig and plant, always on the lookout for worms and insects to forage and feast on. Their beautiful speckled bellies, long slender legs and cheeky eyes, give this bird such great character. Their call is a high pitched, joyful trill.

A group of thrush are called a hermitage. The dictionary describes the word “hermitage” as a retreat, refuge, haven, sanctuary and small and remote. It seems in a way so appropriate, that a bird whose numbers are in such decline, inhabits or takes refuge on Bryher in such large numbers, a hermitage of thrush on a hermitage.

4pm. The stillness of the early morning has lasted all day. The occasional shower of fairy dust-like drizzle seems to have cleared and the hot sun has broken through. After a hot, sticky afternoon working on the tomatoes in the poly tunnels, a cool, muscle and back stretching swim across the half mile or so to Tresco is just what I need.

The sea is a deep indigo blue and the post box red Tresco and Bryher gig stands out as it glides its way down to the racing that is due to start soon. Down at quay there is a slight flurry of a breeze to disturb the surface of the water, but it is barely enough to move the trees.

The swim starts out as a steady crawl, no harder than usual. The waters are clear and a pale jade green. With the sun behind me in the west, the coast of Bryher slowly passes as I head out into mid channel. Here the water becomes colder and a dark bottle green blue. A strange, thick current begins to swirl around my limbs and I can feel the water move and push against the flesh on my legs. It is a hard current to swim through and I find myself gently drifting to my right and Plumb Island. I am glad that I have Graham in the punt beside me for reassurance. I relax and work hard to move steadily across the open stretch of water. It seems to take a long time to reach the harbour and then the beach at New Grimsby and I am relieved to get my feet onto the sand and dry off and warm up.

A good strong swim that was a challenge, and as the island returns to darkness and silent stillness I know I will sleep well tonight!  

Recently I have been reading a fascinating book written by Wallace J. Nichols titled Blue Mind. It is a study of the emotional, behavioral, psychological and physical connections that humans have with water. It discusses research on evolution, economics, neuroplasticity, creativity, health and healing and our relationship with water.

I am now nearing the end of the book and although I have been able to relate to much of what he writes, what I read last night struck a real chord with how I feel when I swim, it is about connecting with nature.

During this chapter he quotes a psychologist called Abraham Maslow, he writes of what he has termed “peak experiences”, and describes these peak experiences as;

“A complete focus of attention; an absence of fear; a perception that life is good; a feeling of connection and even merging with the environment; feeling humbled by the experience and fortunate to have participated in it; a sense that time and space have altered and one is immersed in the present moment; a feeling that the experience is real, true and valuable; flashes of insight and emotions not experienced in daily life; and a realization of the meaningfulness of the experience and the significance for ones future life. When we access these states, we see ourselves not as separate but as “embedded” in our relationship with everything in the world; we are part of everything, and everything is part of us.”

This feeling that I am part of the natural world around me is always present as we work around the farm, being so close to the creatures and plants that we share this island with, but it is brought into sharp focus when I swim. Maybe this is because it is hard to feel anything other than part of the ocean when you are in it, it is an experience that totally encompasses your mind and body.

Today’s swim was a sign of the summer to come, the sun was hot and warmed my skin as I walked down the sandy track, bare shouldered, past South Hill towards the boat yard. There was a cool northerly breeze and so Green Bay was the sheltered choice. The boat yard boys were busy as they got punts, hire boats and sailing boats ready for the summer season.

I quickly dived in and swum away to the left, heading towards the quay. The water, fairly shallow, was a translucent green, deliciously cool and enticing. Sun beams rippled across the seabed and dancing rays of golden light and darker shadows played in the water. Yachts now cruise up and down the channel and little motor boats move around the bay. There felt like quite a strong tidal pull heading down towards the Brow and around the base of Samson Hill, so I decided to stick close to the shore and enjoy exploring waving forests of bladder wrack and limpet covered granite rocks.  

Streams of silver bubbles flowed from my hands and dazzled me as I swum through them, the movement of light was enchanting. I was in this moment of “peak experience” that Maslow described.

Writing about my experiences of swimming and life on Bryher, gives me a further opportunity to reflect upon, enjoy those moments and to express the thoughts of pleasure that I get from being here. I often have “pinch me moments” and remember how lucky I am to be living here.

Connected – Brought together or into contact so that a real or notional link is established. Provide or have a link or relationship with. Feel an affinity to.   Oxford English Dictionary.

Today I swam back to Bryher from its nearest inhabited neighbour Tresco. It takes me about 25 minutes to navigate the channel from New Grimsby to Quay, mostly doing front crawl with the occasional stop for a breather and a look around. The view towards the Atlantic, past Cromwell’s Castle and Hangman’s island are wonderful from a seal’s eye view.

I love the feeling of being able to leave one shore and to arrive on another. As I picked my way down to the tideline, across the rocky beach at New Grimsby, and waded through the swampy mass of thick brown bladder wrack, the rest of the family jumped on board the jet boat that would take them home. I knew I if I wanted to get home I would have to swim, no getting half way across and giving up.

The journey through the water is an interesting one, both physically and metaphorically. There are currents and boats to be aware of, a changing seabed and the wildlife to view. It crossed my mind as an interesting thought that what divides these islands and the folk that inhabit them, also connects them. The sea, an ever changing constant that create these tiny islands.

Although the five islands are geographically close, each can be quite separate and independent both in terms of landscape and community. However, there is a connection between these islands, that exists because of this big blue water, we are all people that have chosen, for one reason or another, to be here. To live on these tiny islands. We are all “shima”. In Japanese this word means island dweller. Laurie Brinklow has written in her studies of island dwellers;

                “It’s one thing to vacation on an island, which millions do every year, looking for a balm to soothe the weary soul. It’s quite another to live on an island, where life is distilled, essentialised; there’s are realness that comes with isolation.”

I have a growing fascination with the psychology of island dwellers. Why do we love the life an island provides? In many ways island life is full of contradictions.

Independence and isolationism – interdependence and community

Aloneness and separation – connection and togetherness

Containment and restriction – freedom and acceptance

Whatever the reasons people dwell on Scilly, I think there is one reason we all have in common for loving this special archipelago; it is one of the most beautiful places on earth. We are all, be it that we are on holiday or living here, connected by a sense of awe and wonder at the tranquillity, the soul nourishing scenery, the wildlife, the fresh sea air and the sea itself.

That water that can be deep blue, jade green, steely grey or sparkling silver. Thundering and deadly or calm and still.  The sea that surrounds each individual island connects us all through travel, livelihood or pleasure.

My swim from island to island was a great way to stretch the stamina of body and mind, and it was a wonderful way to journey home.

Dear Nellie

Thank you for your concern for us in this strong wind, we are as you can tell absolutely fine. Indeed, it has been a tad breezy overnight and continues to be blowy today but we have clung tight to our little rock in the Atlantic and luckily haven’t sustained any damage.

The fudge stall at Veronica farm had blown over and some of the protective netting on the broccoli had been blown off in places, but we had battened down the doors on the poly tunnels and cold frames last night, lit the fire and hunkered down.

Today has been a bright and breezy day with the old April shower. Admittedly when those showers blow in they are sharp, squally and not very pleasant but in between these the sun shines brightly and the sea is awesome. Typical April I suppose.

I have spent most of the morning cleaning as its changeover day. The perfect antidote to this is a wild and all-encompassing swim. I could have gone down to Green bay which is sheltered and an entrancing turquoise colour, but instead I opted for the more invigorating Popplestones, where the wind is at its strongest.

The sparrows are back at Hell Bay hotel now, and several of the funny little brown birds hopped along in front of me as I walked past the hotel on my way to the beach. I could feel the strength of the wind increasing as I got closer to the coast and as I undressed I had to quickly pin all my clothes down with rocks to stop them blowing away.

The sea was so green! Great white, rolling waves were pounding into Scilly rock, Gweal and the rock base of Gweal Hill, sending arcing clouds of frothy spray high into the air. The bay in comparison was calm but still choppy and churning. The granite pebbles were rolling in and out along the shoreline as the waves swept up onto the gravely sand and it was a bit of a struggle to keep my footing as the sea swirled around my legs.

The swim was noisy and rough, there were so many bubbles frothing about it was like having bubble bath in the water. I lay on my back in the swell watching the waves rolling in and my feet bobbing up and down. I didn’t stay long though as it was very difficult to swim and without that movement it gets cold pretty quickly.

It was almost impossible to get my clothes back on in the wind and I didn’t bother with my trousers which I am sure made for a few odd looks from the people walking past me!

Hopefully when you come over in a few weeks’ time it will have calmed down a little and perhaps you could join me for a quick dip?

Cheerio for now, much love Ruth.

It seems as though I cannot let go of the blog, it feels as if something is missing, like the gap left when an old friend leaves.

A conversation over coffee has reminded me that there were reasons for moving here to Bryher, for swimming wild and for writing. It can be so easy to get swept up into the day to day trials of working hard and looking after a family, and although these jobs of course need to be done, the children need attention and feeding and we need to plant, pick and tend to the livestock and fruit and vegetables on the farm in order to make a living, time for myself is also really important.

 As the environmentalist, entrepreneur and author Paul Hawken said, “Always leave enough time in your life to do something that makes you happy, satisfied, even joyous. That has more of an effect on economic well-being than any other single factor”

It is no good for anyone around you if you feel overstretched and miserable, so I have decided to try and make time for the blog. Writing has become that good friend, that notebook I can always turn to and write down feelings, plans, frustrations and those poetic notions that run through my mind whilst I am out on the farm, walking Bryher or swimming in the sea. This place is far too beautiful and special for it not to be a creative inspiration. So here were todays ventures into the wild waters of Bryher, and another life lesson learnt……. make time for self- compassion, creativity and don’t feel too guilty about it!

This morning began dull, chilly and damp. A strong south westerly wind whipped up the sea into frenzied waves, scurrying clouds and blowing trees. It brought goose bumps to the skin and a nip to the nose as we fed the animals and picked the produce for the stall. Curtains of grey showers swept across leaving a washed palette of watery greys and blues in the sky.  

An hour or so later as we walked down to meet the school boat, the wind still made its presence felt but the sun had broken through and as I sat on the beach at quay, sheltered behind the rush covered bank, the warmth felt soft and cosy on my face. The golden sand was twinkling and smooth as the incoming tide slowly crept its way up the shore. The bay was calm, the wind deflected by the large concrete quay and the little island it sits upon. The girls waited patiently, Martha playing on the beach whilst Lizzie sheltered in the waiting room.

The water was sea glass green and clear, cool calm and silky on my body as I dived down. It tasted very salty today and slightly stung my mouth, but my lungs filled and emptied with great gulps of wonderful fresh air as I swum in rhythmical strokes out towards the first buoys in the bay.

The sun in the east was so bright it was blinding and I almost had to close my eyes when I breathed to the right, Tresco obscured by the dazzle of water. Above the town of Bryher large dark grey clouds gathered, the gulls that danced and glided in the sky were bright white dots against the blackness. A rope that leads out to sea, then submerged, was covered in a feathery green weed, soft and floaty, the weed that gives Green Bay its name as it turns the seabed a bright lush green.

 Back and forth parallel to the shoreline I swum, over waving bladder wrack, feeling that wonderful stretch of the shoulders and back in the water. The school boat approached and other children arrived to be jetted off to Tresco, so out I got and quickly put on the towel, jumper and woolly hat to keep the wind at bay.

As I returned to the shore to wave the girls off, the sand was speckled and pot marked by the earlier rain, it makes me think of April showers and rainbows.

Quite a dramatic title I know, but this is the last blog entry for a while. The daylight hours grow longer, we are now waking at 5 am to be out by 5:45, catch the early morning light and squeeze an extra couple of hours work in to the day. We are heading into the busiest time on the farm, our noses are to the grindstone and we literally and metaphorically make hay whilst the sun shines.

Yesterday, Easter Sunday, felt like our last chance for a proper day off for a few months. We spent the day on the uninhabited island of St Helens. It was the sort of day that children dream about, a deserted island all to yourself to become intrepid explorers, treasure hunters and foragers (albeit foraging on the crisps and hot cross buns of the picnic).

The sun was beating down, a slight breeze kept the temperature pleasant, the sky a hazy blue and the sea a mass of silver sparkles. The ebbing tide revealed rocky islands covered in seaweed.

On landing at the only beach on the south westerly side of the island, facing towards Tresco and Tean, we made our way up the steep sided hill. Past the ancient remains of the monks retreat and the pest house, along the rat run path. The children led the way, through the scratchy heather, the bouncy sea thrift and the soft spikes of the hot and tot fig. Past bushes of yellow gorse, their flowers smelt of coconut and honey in the warm air.

A bumble bee buzzed past me and I felt a great sense of us being intruders in their world, I felt I should have apologised for being on their island, where humans are interlopers, as we are in much of the world. We reached the summit and a truly breathtaking view lay before us. St Martins, Tean and a collection of tiny islands, rocks, sandy bays and sand flats to the south. Round Island with its striking white light house to the north east, Tresco and Shipman Head to the west.

Gulls soared above and below us, their effortless gliding almost hypnotic. How wonderfully tranquil it was, only the five of us there, I can only imagine how harsh and grim it must have been for those poor sailors, quarantined there during the plague ridden days of the eighteenth century.

Days of escapism like yesterday will be few and far between over the summer months. I will continue to swim and to write about life on Bryher, but time for compiling the blog feels as if it is diminishing and so I have decided to put it on hold for now. There maybe the odd entry when I feel I have the time and energy, in the meantime I hope you all have a wonderful summer.

After the monsoon rains of the weekend, a welcome relief for humans and animals alike today as the sunshine and its radiant warmth has returned. It is as if the cold, biting wind and constant driving rain that we all endured yesterday never happened, the only clues are the puddles and saturated fields.

So it is with a lazy holiday feel that the girls and I meet with school friends as they enjoy a day trip to Bryher from St Marys. We walk down across Green Bay, playing in the soft golden sand with our toes, on our way to meet their boat.

After a picnic in the garden it’s down to Great Par for a swim and paddle. The bay is a deep blue, with sun glinting off the sea on the horizon. The roar of a ground swell out in the Atlantic gives a constant background sound of the sea and some small but steady waves rolling into the shore. As the children paddle and play in the rock pools, some in bathing costumes, some in their birthday suits, two of us head out for a swim.

There feels like a rise and roll as the swell of water moves around the bay and the watery horizon bobs high and low in my vision, we steadily crawl out into the middle of the bay, to the pink buoy. The visibility out there is pretty poor, the rocks down on the seabed towards the edge of the bay are barely visible and certainly no fish are to be spotted here. We are treated to a close up fly past of two beautiful oyster catchers, their pure white bellies flashing against the blue sea and brown granite rock stacks.

Back towards the shore the clarity of the water improves and I enjoy a little play, diving down among the waving forests of bladder wrack, sea lettuce and coral weed. There are a multitude of greens, browns and blues in this watery haven. As I spin and tumble turn I am surrounded by a mass of silver blue bubbles and the sun is dazzling above my head, momentarily turning my vision to a blurred golden haze. Out on the beach I sit, bare shouldered, basking in the sunshine, soaking up the heat on my chilled skin. Drinking a welcomed cup of tea made on a little camping stove. The children play and we chat and recall various swimming stories and adventures. We all feel so lucky to be able to live on these beautiful islands, to enjoy the natural pleasures they give us, and having the sunshine always adds that extra special sense of paradise.