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Sunday, September 25, 2016

Swim summary: not as summery as before

I will do sincere penance to the data integrity gods for failing to keep these posts In Their Proper Order. I posted about Swim 12 (or non-swim, as it turned out) having left you with only a data fragment from #8. Bad monkey!

Now where were we? Swims 9-11 could be characterised by quiet seasonal changes, and taking opportunities as they present themselves.

Swim 9 was from the Secret Spot with L, on an intermediately cloudy Friday morning a couple of weeks ago. The water was cool (14º?), but didn't perturb us too much. This time no dope-smokers on the sluice-gate (all back at school going over the learning objectives for the year).  Some sunshine broke through here and there as we pottered upstream, reaching about 1 km from the start. And swooshed back down again, being regarded at one of the corners by the Big Brown Cow. Ducks and herons otherwise. Couple of submerged branches to contend with, which seemed to favour my (heavy?) legs rather than L's. A couple with a baby en papoose regarded us with a semi-interested expression as we clambered out. Until I fully emerged that is, and then they're off! Nothing like a naked ginger guy to disperse people, I find ;-).

Swim 10. The following week. Solo, from the Weir at 4pm. Bit earlier deliberately, to keep the sunset out of the equation. Weekday, so not much chance of muggles. Sunny, so there were a few. Get in without fuss, and puss along in the cool substance. Push the muscles along to generate some heat. The sun adopts a low position, and scatters its rays all around my grubby goggles. Floating apples, along with leafy debris, bump my nose, like Atlantic growlers along the hull of the craft. They give off yeasty, cider-like smells to warn of their approach.

I keep largely to breaststroke but insert some crappy bursts of what could pass for front crawl, keeping the breathing rate quite high. It occurs to me that I could improve my stroke given time and dedication. I seem to have got it to a basic level of competence now, with some ideas of what's going on within the cycle. I wonder if I will bother to adopt this as a project, or even cram in any pool swimming at all over the winter.

I do my usual mile, turning round at Trower's Bridge (28:16 upstream leg, 19:31 down).  Water a comparatively toasty 17ºC. The air temp was a few notches higher. The previous day even more, which had helped.

Swim 11. Earlier this week. Someone I vaguely knew popped up on one of the Facebook outdoor swim groups asking if there were any takers for a swim further up the Wey, at Thundry Meadows.

This spot is in the meadowy meandering territory west of here, in the Elstead region. Having parked up on a tiny lay-by, and wandered through a slightly marshy approach (duckboards provided) I meet with B. How's it going man, have you seen X lately, done any more Y? 

The river is guarded by a corral of electric fence, which is there to keep the herd of youthful black and white bullocks (Belted Galloway I believe) from getting stuck over the quite steep bank.  Cattle like river banks as we know. We walk up to the entry point he's found, beyond a gate. He's got this fancy IR non-contact thermometer, and takes a reading in the low teens (12º?). In we go and down we paddle with the fairly brisk flow. The water is clearer too, and combed by snakey weeds. Hardly any floating leaf fall, in contrast to the Godalming reaches. The sun catches what look like floating sand crystals, but are actually resting insects. The meanders and various trees being half-in half-out mean that although the swimming isn't hard work, navigation is actively required. I think we do that for no more than 20 minutes, maybe less, escorted for some of the way by a fleet of nearly grown up ducks. The only other spectator is one of the bullocks who's found an easy beach to slurp the river from. He's up to his knees (or ankles, I'm not well up on bovine anatomy) with a dirty face. He stops his slurping to regard us going by. There is sunshine on every other twist, but it feels like a stolen margin of summer rather than the legitimate article.

B's been using the river for weeks it transpires. He tells me the spot was, over the high summer, frequented by a tiny amount of people, a few walkers and even some (female) skinny dippers (so we are not the only ones). An angler, the owner of the third vehicle in "our" lay-by, casts and draws, or whatever the fly-fishing term is, around 500 m downstream. When the ducks are quiet we can just about hear his ratchet whirring. The trees whisper whatever they whisper about. Cars whizz by on the road behind the trees, charging back home to Farnham after their day's work.

The exit is fun. Up the steep bank onto the lawn-like margin. Then under the electric fence, propping it up with a forked stick B has found/made. He hides that in a wood pile and we walk back to the start where I've left all my clobber. I'm thankful for the lush grass that the Galloways are happily munching, having left the usual Crocs back at home. It's nice to walk along with nothing on, being warmed by the sun, but when it goes behind a tree I'm reminded that it's nearly October, and lingering is out of the question. Thanks too for the Thermos. I will also bless the gods of nothingness, for keeping the vacuum that kept my tea warm.


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