Pointy daggers

So far the autumn has been warm and wet but suddenly the temperatures have plummeted. There was thick, swirly frost on the car when I set off for our Sunday morning rendez vous at Spitchwick, and when we got there there was ice in the car park.  Such a refreshing change. We walked along by the river, admiring the frost-rimmed oak leaves underfoot. We arrived at Deeper Marsh and found it covered in grey frost and there was much speculation about what temperature the water might be. In we got, and there were cries of  OOOH!!!!!  POINTY DAGGERS!!!!! This is when the water pricks your skin like a thousand little needles. Vapour was rising from the water and I think I managed to stay in for 2 minutes max. The question is, why? It seems such a mad thing to do, and yet it makes me feel so good, I have embraced the river, life itself. Everything is better after being in the water. And there is the camaraderie too. I have been swimming here every Sunday morning with the same group of dear people for, well, it must be around a decade now. We see each other and the place in all seasons and moods and in times good and bad. 

The balm of the Dart

The River Dart upstream of Ashburton is so well known to me now it is like an old friend, and old friends provide comfort. During the last three months  I have been compelled more than ever to swim in its silky clear water, sit in its cascades and explore its beautiful rocky depths.  The Dart estuary, below Totnes,  I know less well.   It is a different personality, though of course related to its cousin upstream.   It slips in serpentine langour through the folding fields of the South Hams, gradually widening and becoming more saline as it gets to Dartmouth and the sea.   And now of course this bit of the Dart has even more relevance to me, as Felix is buried in Sharpham Meadow, one of those fields above the estuary.   When I visit his grave I often now go down to the river afterwards and swim below the meadow,  looking up at where he lies.

Up the creek

Judy has just moved, albeit temporarily, to Tuckenhay, a gorgeous village nestling by Bow Creek, off the Dart estuary, so it seemed only right to go and test out the water.   We walked along the bank admiring the elegant Jane Austen style houses on the hill on the other side, everything in muted February tones:  greys, browns and dull greens.   The water seemed to be heading out fast but when we got in there was actually not a very strong current (apart from in the middle) and we enjoyed swimming upstream and then floating back down.   The friendly curves of the hillsides down to the creek created a sort of secure feeling as we bobbed around in the middle.   It was chilly, at 8 degrees, though warmer than the Dart further upstream, on Dartmoor.  Afterwards Anna tested out her new rucksack, inherited from her father, which ingeniously combines a seat.

The Dart Slither (Part 2)

Having completed part 1 of the Dart Slither earlier this summer - between Dartmeet and New Bridge - it was time to attempt Part the Second.   And so bright and early one Sunday morning Anna, Rachel, Judy, Ellie and I slipped in under the majestic arches of New Bridge, ready to swim, slide and slither down the Holne Chase section of the Dart, to the weir below Holne Bridge. The river runs mostly through private land, so we were setting off into virgin territory.  The first bit - Spitchwick - was familiar, and enlivened by some great mushroom spotting from the water, of some splendid Penny Bun specimens (which we returned later on to pick).  Then, past Buckland Bridge, we started getting into waters new. The river ran over a series of stickles - this, according to the writer Eric Hemery, is a Dartmoor word for rapids - and then opened out and we passed a fishing lodge, complete with antlers around the door.   We then came across a cascade, which I believe the canoeists call "The Washing Machine" where we braced ourselves against the water and got head massages.   Then we passed under Lovers' Leap - a spectacular cliff, where, legend has it, Wilfred, a young monk from Buckfast Abbey, jumped to his death along with his lover Rosine.  It was a relief to get to Holne Bridge, where the river is deep all the way down to the weir; we were carried along gently by the current and emerged on the bank, four hours after we started.

The washing machine

Lovers' Leap

Springtime green

We're having lots of spring-like sunny weather this week, and when I went to swim in the Dart with Yaara on Monday afternoon we were astounded by the zingy-green clarity of the water.  The river doesn't often look like this, and from memory, it seems to be like this only at this time of the year.   Sometimes it's like lime soda, today it was more of a minty green.   As we plunged in, with the sun sparkling through the water, we felt completely alive. Gingerly, we put our faces in and the view below was equally invigorating:  an underwater landscape of green and grey rocks, seemingly scrubbed clean of any dirt.  I remembered Sharrah Pool looking like this once, and looking back at my photos I see that this was in February 2014,   Perhaps all the rain washes the riverbed clean towards the end of winter,  and then when the sun comes out in Spring it lights it up in all its new freshness.

Sharrah, Feb 2014

Spring at Spitchwick

As I left the house for our regular Sunday morning Dart dip it felt positively balmy.  I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of frosts we've had this winter.
At Spitchwick, Rachel arrived with a bunch of daffodils, which we all wore as we swam (some held them between their teeth, others had them tucked in their collars).  For the first five minutes the temperature on my watch remained in stubborn double figures. Finally it dropped down to 9.2 (Judy's said 7.6)

Back in the swim

Winter swimming has a rhythm that summer swimming doesn't. The summer is full of events, there's no routine.  I love it,  the weather is (relatively speaking) good, and you're out there all the time. In winter, it's tougher but there's more ritual and more regularity.  Every Sunday morning throughout the year a group of us meet to swim in the Dart, and today I got back into that routine.   The season has changed, and it's much colder, so there was the paraphernalia of boots, gloves, warm clothes for afterwards, hip flask etc, to consider.  There was the ritual bankside speculation about the temperature of the water, the ritual noises on entry, the ritual commentary on the nature of the cold.  Although it was undeniably cold, at 9.9 degrees, we had a beautiful swim and stayed in for about quarter of an hour.  There was a delicious purity about the water which set me up perfectly for the day.

A swift Spring swim

Outside my window the blossom is out.  Birds are singing.  The sun is shining.   Inwardly, I am letting out a huge sigh of relief, because it finally seems that Spring is here.  Today, Anna and I were finishing our session in the Torture Chamber (aka the gym) and we emerged, at about five fifteen, to glorious sunshine and LIGHT.  Spontaneously, we decided on a swim, and popped to our nearest pool on the Dart, the one we call the SSS (the swift swimming solution).  We arrived to find the dwarf daffodils out, and the water smooth and inviting, with golden reflections of the clouds above.  We were unprepared, so wore socks (plus in Anna's case, trainers) to keep our feet warm, which were surprisingly effective, so much so that we wondered why we bother spending money on wet shoes.  The water was achingly cold on our unprotected hands,  but delicious.

What a difference a degree or two makes

The Dart is well known for being a flashy river - up and down like a tart's drawers as someone remarked.  When we arrived for our regular Sunday dip there was a tide mark of twigs on the grass, showing that the river must have been really high in the last day or so.   When we got in it felt distinctly warmer than our last swim a week before.  For a start, I didn't have the feeling of millions of tiny daggers pricking my legs as I took the plunge, which I've had the last couple of times we've swam.  It turned out to be nearly three  degrees warmer - 7.7 - which made a big difference.

Festive swims

Swimming in devilishly cold water is the perfect antidote to all the slobbing, sitting and scoffing that goes on at this time of year.  On Christmas morning we met early on the banks of the Dart for a bracing plunge, adorned in Santa hats and tinsel, before heading back to our various families and festive traditions.  Then on Boxing Day, Anna, Yaara and I had a dimpsy dip in the pouring rain.  Today, there was frost on the ground and ice in the puddles as we met again at Spitchwick.  As I stood in the water preparing to immerse it felt as though a thousand tiny daggers were plunging into my legs.   The water was a perishing 5.1 degrees by my watch - but 3.8 by Judy's.  "Why do you do it?" I hear you ask.  Well it's a bit of a cliche, but like most cliches it's true:there is something so invigorating and revitalising about the cold water....it restores you to your factory settings.

Solstice swimming and hangover cures

We have an emerging tradition which involves a carol singing party on the Saturday before Christmas - known as "Carols and Carousing" followed by a swim at Sugary Cove in Dartmouth  the following day.  Also part of the tradition is Queenie and Kate missing the party, but managing to get to the swim.  Last year they got the wrong day, this year, Kate felt lousy; we're already speculating what next year's excuse will be.  Still, they made it to Sugary Cove, where it was generally agreed that this was the perfect way to cure the hangovers and celebrate the shortest day of the year - or rather, the start of days getting longer.  In fact it turned out to be a day of double dipping, as Rachel and I also went in the Dart earlier, where it was a chilly 8 degrees.  The swim was enlivened by a naturist who joined in, and did some bracing stretches on the bank into the bargain.  At Sugary Cove the sea was three and a half degrees warmer, and we had a glorious swim through the channel to Castle Cove, before scoffing Queenie's delicious home-made mince pies, still warm, on the beach afterwards.

Leaf snow

"It's like leaf snow" said Angie as the leaves fluttered gently from the sky as we swam.  We were at the pool off Wellsfoot Island, below Holne Cliff, and the water had cleared since we swam there last week.   The leaves were all around us, like little gold coins, falling above our heads, collecting in drifts on the surface, and sinking gently underwater.  The water temperature has gone down about a degree - now at 11.8 degrees. 

Warm river

My friend Judy swears the Dart gets warmer the nearer you get to its source.  Today I had the opportunity to test this theory, with two swims, one at Spitchwick and one upstream at Sharrah Pool.  It seems she is right, although an experiment on one random day is hardly very scientific.  It was 13.2 at Spitchwick, and 13.7 at Sharrah, a difference of half a degree.   However I'm not sure this as at all conclusive as the swim at Spitchwick was at 9am and the one at Sharrah was six hours later.  At any rate, both swims were beautiful, as we glided around in great swirls of natural foam..   The water is much clearer now too, having been been variously like cocoa, Bovril and tea in the last couple of weeks.

What a difference some rain makes

The Dart has gone from zero to hero - or perhaps the other way round - in a matter of days.  Just over a week ago we swam at Spitchwick; the temperature had plummetted to 11 degrees but the water was still the lowest it's been for a long time.  Within 24 hours, after a night of heavy rain, it was completely unswimmable.  Today, after more rain, it was like boiling Bovril, racing along and overtopping its banks.  As the rain pelted down, we gathered at the big bend at Spitchwick, the only place remotely possible to swim, and created a 'changing room' out of umbrellas; Anna declared that umbrellas are the 'new thing' in winter swimming, and that she's giving up waterproof coats forthwith.  We stood on the edge of the river, up to our ankles on granite slabs that are usually dry, and plunged into the brown water, which immediately froze our fingers.   We hugged the bend as we whooshed round to the next exit, got out, and repeated the exercise.  We all agreed that it wasn't the most pleasant swim ever, but 'honour had been satisfied'.

Carnage on the river bank

After another sweltering day we were enjoying a refreshing dip in a glorious stretch of the Dart, overhung with greenery and bordered by delicate cow parsley.  Suddenly there was triumphant barking from Buddy, Yaara's permanently excited black labrador.  He was on a big rock in the river, with a huge fish in his mouth.  We rushed over, to find him with the remains of a two foot long salmon -  all that was left of it was the head and the skeleton.   It was like one of those cartoon fishes in Tom and Jerry - pretty much all of it  had been eaten - but what remained of the flesh was a beautiful pink colour. Just to the side of the rock was evidence of the crime - fish scales and bones were everywhere.  We assume the fish had been killed by an otter - it must have been quite a fight to witness, as they were probably about the same size.  My brother Matt says the skin peeled back but still attached to the fish is characteristic of an otter kill.

Building bridges

Ever since I've lived on Dartmoor, there's been a rickety bridge to Wellsfoot Island on the River Dart, with a notice saying "Private Bridge Keep Off".  Despite that, people have always used it, but it's been getting more hazardous, increasingly resembling one of those jungle bridges that swing precariously over a chasm below.  Anyway, imagine our surprise when visiting the island tonight, to find a new bridge, constructed some time over the weekend.  It's more of a decking walkway, but perfect for the job, and how nice of someone to build it.   We took great delight in christening it, crossing with ease over to the island, and then on to the beach on the other side, where we swam in the gorgeous oval pool.   The setting sun came and went through the trees like the beam from a light house.

Bliss in the river

We are blessed with a mini heatwave at the moment and it is just so refreshing to go for a post-work dip in the river.  As we walked along the bank amongst the fading bluebells and garlic the sun was bouncing off the surface and crowds of insects swarmed above the water.  Miggy spotted a sea trout sitting quietly above the weir.  We swam upstream, almost blinded by the sun. The current was strong but I was determined to get to a little island I've called Hairy Rock on account of the weed which grows on it, which, underwater,  looks uncannily like human hair flowing in the wind.

A swim and a skull

Anna and I set off from New Bridge following the Dart upstream, in constant admiration at the intensity of the oranges and golds of the leaves, set against the dramatic river rushing below.   We arrived at Holne Cliff, opposite Wellsfoot Island, where the river opens out into a particularly dark, oval pool.  Wild swimming guru Rob Fryer has a powerful description of the boulders on the bottom of this pool; he says they're like 'tightly swaddled babies'.   Anna and I made our way in by wading in along a ledge and under a fallen tree, before launching out into the cold yet beautifully soft water.  There was a strong current to swim against to get across to the calmer side by the beach on the island, but the effort of swimming against it helped us acclimatise.  Lily, Anna's dog, seemed very excited and we discovered she'd found a sheep's skull with a spectacular set of horns.  Anna took it home to add to her growing collection of Dartmoor bones.

My dear friend the Dart

I've been neglecting my great friend recently.  Don't know why really, I was constantly in the river during the heatwave, but in the last month I've just been in the sea.  So I was a bit apprehensive about getting back in the Dart again, having heard reports that the temperature has plummetted; indeed it's a little over half the temperature of the sea at the moment.  We went along to the Double Jacuzzi Pool, and I was last to get in, sliding in cautiously.  But to my great delight the water felt soft and silky - and really quite warm.  The big boulders below me looked fuzzy and out of focus.  The water has become less clear as the rain brings down mud and debris from higher up the Moor, and the boulders have acquired brown furry coats; no doubt I'll be doing the same in the next few weeks.

Dart dipping

During the heatwave we've taken to swimming in the Dart pretty much every evening, and even though the temperatures have fallen and the rain has come, the lovely habit persists.  After all, if you live just a couple of miles from the Dart why not take daily advantage?  Today was particularly sweaty and sticky, and Rachel and I went down to a broad pool by Buckland Bridge.  The River Webburn bubbles into the pool, sending swirls of foamy blobs downstream.  We swam up against the current, watching fish jump, before turning and floating downstream.  Suddenly, ouch!  We hit the cold confluence of the two rivers.