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Camiño light

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There are two kinds of Camino – a fact I discovered quite soon after we began our pilgrimage. There is Camino “heavy” and then there is Camino “light”.

When we set out we decided we’d attempt to do Camino heavy. This means walking the way and carrying everything you will need in your back pack. However little you pack, it’s still too much and by the end of the day your shoulders and basically everything aches!

But there is also Camino light. Pilgrims taking this option will have a company which takes their main luggage on to the next stop and they are then free to just carry their essentials like water, money, a hat and maybe a jumper. These ‘light’ pilgrims have skipped past me on numerous occasions, speeding by in the overtaking lane while I plodded under a bit of a burden. But, it is my Camino and I could have chosen to send my baggage on… I had chosen to tough it out and feel noble.

There are many ways to be humbled. Mine came two days ago when I suffered an injury going down a steep path. No matter how much ice and painkillers I took, I was barely going to be able to walk, let alone carry a heavy pack.

Have you heard the phrase – two are better than one? Actually, it’s a Bible verse from Ecclesiastes 4: “Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labour: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.”

Thankfully I am walking the Camino with someone who seems to like me quite a lot and does a good job of holding me up when I fall down. I didn’t send my backpack on via taxi, but I was able to offload most of my heavy stuff into my husband’s rucksack.

Suddenly, here I was walking Camino light!

Yesterday we set off on one of the toughest parts of this Camino called the Spiritual Variant. It takes you over the hills to the coast, then you go by boat following the route St James’ body was supposed to have travelled in a miraculous journey in a stone boat, guided by angels, which ended up in the city of Padron. This became the original starting point for the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

As we left the town of Pontevedra there were dozens of pilgrims flowing out of the town in the early morning. I’d never expected it to be so crowded. But as soon as we came to the junction where we turned off on the Spiritual Variant, we were almost alone and we breathed a sigh of relief as we headed into the hills. We were now a bit unbalanced – one of us was on Camino light and the other was on Camino very heavy!

We got through the never ending ups of yesterday and arrived at the monastery of Armenteira, high up in the hills of Galatia. We had made it – injured Camino light and stalwart Camino heavy!

I was hoping for more of the same today, but sadly the pain in my leg worsened. The only option was for the pack to go altogether. I hobbled on “pack less”, (Camino air?) while my military trained husband wore two packs!

Twenty four km later and with about 37,000 steps behind us we arrived at the coast. A swim in the sea was a must and now we are both in Camino ‘rehab’ with a glass of red wine.

There are just two more days of walking left until we reach Santiago… I am hoping the beautiful partnership of light and heavy Camino can stay the course!

Three days on the ‘pinch of salt path’

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A brief encounter of the naked kind was just one of the unexpected happenings during three days on the South West Coastal Path.

We’ve been on a mission for a few days – a “training” mission apparently – preparing for a possible long hike along the coast of Portugal to Santiago de Compostella. This would be a 170-mile pilgrimage journey over a couple of weeks, if we can manage it.

As we have one of the world’s best hiking routes on our doorstep we decided to test out our endurance levels with three days back-to-back walking. This was a bit of a first for us.

Having completed other parts of the ‘salt path’ over the past few years, we decided to fill in some of the stretches we hadn’t pulled in. The first day dawned with some light cloud and a gentle breeze and I quickly realised I would mainly be walking solo as my hiking partner’s long stride was impossible to keep pace with. 

One of the things keeping me going on all the ups and downs and twists and turns was taking off my walking boots and having a swim in the clear waters of Lannacombe bay. This was also the point at which we turned round and retraced our steps to Gara Rock.

En route we’d passed some amazing rocky outcrops and hidden sandy coves where the path became narrow and it was a bit of a scramble through the rocks, with a very steep drop below us. I was just recovering from one of these rocky passages and keeping my eyes on the uneven path, when I looked ahead and saw a man in a rucksack approaching. The path was very narrow and I realised he had stopped to let me pass. It was then I realised why he was holding his hat in particular position. He was completely naked – apart from his boots.

It had turned into a balmy afternoon and I’m sure he was enjoying the sun on his back (and his butt). As I squeezed past him, I thanked him for waiting and thought for a millisecond about saying, “Nice hat!”. I resisted the temptation to look back at his bare essentials heading along the cliff. However, when I eventually caught up with my walking partner, he gave me a blow-by-blow description of everything I’d missed. I’d heard of naked hikers, but this was the first one I’d met… he certainly helped brighten up the last few miles of that day!

Blisters = 0

Blackberries eaten = 5

Wildlife = 2 seals and a slowworm

Water = not enough

On the morning of day two, although we knew all the right things to pack, we were tired. So, when we eventually sat down for lunch by Mothercombe beach, we discovered I had forgotten to pack the lemon Fanta. Small things (especially food and drink items) seem to take on enormous importance on a hike and it took one of us some time to get over the disappointment of only having water to drink.

While we were waiting for the sun to come out, we chatted to another pair of hikers from Belgium who were heading east, hoping to cross the river Erme somehow. They ended up persuading a man with a dinghy to take them across with their packs. Breaking away from his birthday beach party, he bundled one ruck sack and one girl into the little dinghy and set off against the tide, the dinghy lying low in the water. Meanwhile we went for a swim and expected to see him appearing back around the headland for his second passenger. 

A long while later we spotted him rowing the dinghy to his yacht, which was anchored some way off the beach. We assumed he’d run out of fuel. Drying off from our swim, we watched as he reached the yacht – hopefully he would pick up his fuel and return shortly. But a few minutes later we spotted the dinghy floating across the bay, away from the yacht, and he wasn’t on it! The drama continued. On the beach, the other hiker was on her phone messaging her friend. The party on the shore, looked across the water as the lone yachtsman pulled up his anchor and went in pursuit of his dinghy, which can’t have been tied up securely. Although we really should have been setting off again, we couldn’t leave until we’d seen the outcome of the seaside rescue!

In the end the dinghy was retrieved, the yacht was re-anchored and the sailor returned to the shore. He collected the other hiker and her pack and sped across to the far beach to reunite her with her friend. It was turning out to be a very eventful day on the salt path.

As we were nearing the end of our journey that day, we’d skirted round a large mobile home park on the cliffs and passed a lot of people coming and going from there with their dogs. I now owe an apology to the man in the straw trilby we passed later that afternoon. I had made a disparaging comment about his orange T-shirt and white socks being an indication that he’d come from the holiday park. No sooner had I said this quite loudly, to catch the ear of my fellow hiker who was striding ahead, than I turned round to see him directly behind me. I jumped and let out a stifled gasp. He asked me what was wrong, and I said he’d given me a shock as I hadn’t realised he was behind me. I don’t think I could have gone any redder, as I was already flushed with the sun and walking.

Blisters = 1

Blackberries eaten = 10

Wildlife = another slowworm

Water supply = just right

Day three it was a little harder to get up and out, but I had packed the lemon Fanta this time – it was double checked before we left the house. The clouds were gathering as we drove into the car park where we would start our walk towards Plymouth.

Reaching back for our boots, there was an ominous, “Oh, no. I’ve left my socks behind.”

This was bad news, I didn’t think much walking could be done without a pair of hiking socks. Surely this was a larger error than forgetting the Fanta? Luckily, as I’ve developed a blister I had my trainers in the car with a pair of thick white socks in them. It turned out they fitted size 11 feet also! I glanced across at my fellow hiker, he was now wearing white socks and in his bag was an orange fleecy top! We both burst out laughing – it was a good way to start the day.

The rain came eventually once we’d reached our destination and as we trudged through the woods back along the coast, we could hear the foghorn from a ferry booming through the mist. A marker by the path said Poole was 175 miles from this point, which means there is a lot more “training” to be done!

Blisters = 1

Blackberries eaten = 15

Water supply = 2 spare bottles

Who believes in sea monsters?

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Of course I don’t believe in sea monsters, but paddling into a dark cave tends to feed your imagination…

After logging more than 1000 nautical miles, sailing from Greece and along the coast of Italy to Corsica, the end of our voyage is almost in sight. Today we are crossing the Straits of Bonifacio between Corsica and Sardinia, pushed along by a welcome cooling breeze.

The weather has been almost entirely hot and sunny, with the exception of Naples, where we got drenched one morning going ashore. Heavy rain and waves had swept across the little dinghy as it bounced through the rollers and we were a very soggy shopping party as we trailed round the local supermarket.

The day before we’d wandered through some of city’s piazza’s and enjoyed the evening buzz of the Spanish quarter. We ate in one of the narrow streets, jumping clear of scooters which wove their way between tables, where diners sipping drinks were forced to shift their chairs to let them through. The streets were full of colourful flags adding an extra dimension to the washing and lights suspended between balconies.

Naples was a pleasant surprise, but I didn’t need more than a night there. Since then we have hopped from one rocky island to another.

On one tiny island, called Procida, we found ourselves exploring an ancient prison on the cliffs. The village was a bit tumble down and that included the steps up from the beach where rusting reinforcement was clearly visible through the crumbling concrete. As we continued up the cliff road towards the towering castle above, it began to feel a little oppressive. We wondered why there were bars on some of the windows, and what were look out towers and barb wire doing on a castle?

A fading poster explained that the castle had once been a notorious prison with a cruel governor. And the story of one of the most unfortunate prisoners had now been made into a film – it was all about a postman who had been unjustly incarcerated there for years. It was a sorry tale and the little town didn’t seem to have ever fully recovered from the shadow of the prison that dominates the cliffs above.

Next stop were the Pontine islands – in particular Ponza island, where we basked in the clear turquoise waters surrounded by volcanic cliffs. We also came across an optical illusion – a giant stone arch, that had looked just like a massive cave from where we were anchored. The next morning as the boat swung round on its anchor we suddenly realised it was an arch as we watched people paddling through it. We read later that the strange arch was likened to a pair of builders pants!

Continuing our island tour we stopped off in yet another delightful bay lined with rocks and a sandy beach. Here there were a number of caves that looked interesting – so after snorkelling to check out a few, we took the paddle board to a more distant one. It was quite huge and I paddled in slowly, because you never know what might be hiding in a cave!

The cave was in two sections and the right hand part was very deep at the far end where the low roof disappeared into a hollow darkness.

“Paddle in there, it looks interesting,” I was encouraged.

“I don’t want to… it looks scary,” I replied.

“No it doesn’t… just paddle in..”

The debate continued. I didn’t want to go in forwards in case there was something unpleasant in there, like Gollum or a sea monster of some sort, but these didn’t seem very solid arguments.

We ended up going in backwards so that I wasn’t the one going in first. The walls were very close and damp and we had to duck our heads because the roof was so low. Just as it was becoming completely dark we both agreed there was nothing of interest and headed quickly out. If there was a sea monster, it must have been having a siesta, along with the rest of Italy!

Before leaving for the crossing to Corsica, the island of Giglio was our final stop. It was here that lives were lost when the Concordia cruise ship hit a rock and sank off the port. The negligent captain, who had been one of the first to leave his sinking ship, was sentenced to 16 years in prison. We realised that the rocks the ship had struck were at the edge of the bay where we were anchored.

This little Island was one of our favourites. After a scramble up cliff steps to the road, we enjoyed coffee at the port and took a local bus up to the ancient hill town above, where we enjoyed views across the island, while sipping cold beer. Later we swam and paddle boarded in a sandy bay until the sun went down.

Now on the final week of our time in Italy, I’m wondering what delights Sardinia will hold and how I’m ever going to get to sleep without the rocking of the boat!

The sea is our home

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Sailing voyages are completely different to anything else… perhaps with the exception of space travel.

We see the world from a new perspective. Surrounded by blue, I’m enjoying the wide open seas and broad horizons. When land emerges, the coast isn’t a beach or a sea front or even a harbour. It’s a line on the horizon. As we come closer we bob past tiny houses in a variety of colours clustering round a hilltop, the trees and bushes appearing like a miniature railway set.

Then eventually we step ashore and everything comes into perspective again. The houses zoom into focus and begin to assume normal proportions, the roads and streets emerge and we breathe in the smell of land.

Yesterday we braved the heat to call in on some of the family holidaying nearby. Following instructions we trudged up a narrow track from the harbour. I inhaled the scent of pine needles and enjoyed the sweet aroma of jasmine as we passed a garden.

Looking for a padlocked gate, we wound our way up an increasingly steep path, eventually coming to a dead end at a gate into a large house. We must have gone wrong… of course there was no phone signal to call and check. We were sure we were close and started to call out, before retracing our steps. Getting lost has been a favourite pastime of mine, but this time it wasn’t long before I heard a shout from lower down the track.

“You’ve gone too far!”

With a guide to follow we began a steep climb up the hillside, through the “unlocked” gate, plodding up a line of steps reaching as far as we could see.

“There’s a pool at the top,” our son encouraged us, as drops of sweat raced down my cheeks like rain.

“It’s not much further… honestly!”

I paused on one of the many terraces lined with olive trees – it was beautiful. Behind us I glimpsed the shimmering blue of the sea twinkling between the trees.

At the top the view was spectacular and there was iced coffee to enjoy. Through the gaps in the trees we looked down on a lone Pura Vida, bobbing happily in the bay. Perhaps she was enjoying the space from her passengers!

The climb up was worth its weight in gold, as we enjoyed a refreshing swim and great company in the setting of an authentic Italian villa, complete with a long table on the terrace overlooking the sea. It was strange to be on land for so long, but before we had time to get used to it, we were back on board ready for the next leg of the journey.

Departure was slightly delayed by a little engine trouble. A few hours was spent rolling in the bay, while oil was pumped out and then replaced… I’ll spare the technical details!

So, late afternoon we waved goodbye to familiar faces and the hillside villa to move around the next headline in search of a quiet bay, where we hoped for a peaceful night.

For now our world is on the sea again. Land, towns and villages seem like alien places. The sea and the waves are our windows and our garden. The wind is our road taking us on to the next destination and it’s our comfortable place.

Waiting for adventure

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It turns out sailing a catamaran is all about waiting..

Two weeks ago we flew out to Greece to join another couple on their yacht to sail with them on a voyage to Venice. We were excited about the trip and all the new places we’d visit and very much looking forward to sailing a catamaran for the first time. We knew it would be very different from a monohull.

Unfortunately things haven’t gone quite to plan and the trip has turned into a bit of a saga. But as one of my colleagues told me – “There’s always a story!”

We planned to spend a few days exploring the island of Lefkas before setting sail. After a couple of days soaking up some sunshine, in between rain showers, we took a break from gazing at the azure blue sea, and headed inland to find a waterfall. The dry river bed en route didn’t look promising, but as we climbed we began to hear the sound of water and before long a tumbling stream appeared, visible at point between the arching trees and ferns and bushes sprouting from the banks and rocky outcrops. The path wound up beneath a steep ravine and huge boulders.

At the end of the path was a beautiful green pool, where water was streaming down a moss lined cliff. It wasn’t much of a waterfall, but it was fresh and tranquil and the sound was calming. I couldn’t resist a dip, so quickly slid into the water, staring around for ducks. I could hear them quacking, but couldn’t I spot them. It was then I spied two bright green things on the rocks beside me. Frogs basking in the sun and making a very loud sound just like ducks!

On returning from the frog pool we had some bad news as we heard the new propeller for the catamaran was stuck in customs at Athens airport.

However, the extra night on the island gave us the pleasure of meeting a most joyful Greek host – Costas – “call me Gas” – who served us coffee and homemade cake on arrival and made us feel welcome in his home on the cliffs with spectacular sea views. Breakfast was a lavish spread laid out in his rustic kitchen with everything from strawberries to croissants and cheese!

Further delays with customs meant we had to extend our road trip for a few days up the coast of Greece while we waited for the propeller to arrive. But we enjoyed visiting Parga, a pretty Italianesque coastal town.

The down or the upside of the delays, depending on your perspective, was that there was plenty of time to meander in the local shops and buy nice things! I managed to add a few more kilos to my rather full bag! Our BnB host in Parga was Kara (which she told us means ‘joy’ in Greek) and she lived up to her name with her enthusiasm for life and her warm welcome.

She was busy whitewashing a tree trunk when arrived, her clothes paint splattered and a smile spreading across her face. After throwing open the shutters to our room with its panoramic sea view, she sprang onto her motorbike and whizzed off.

The next day as clouds hovered we headed inland to explore a renowned river called the “Springs of Acheron”. Sounding like something out of a Tolkien novel, it lived up to its name. And although we weren’t venturing on the high seas we did find ourselves wading and sometimes swimming through the clear icy waters rushing through a narrow canyon.

An hour upstream we began to lose the feeling in our hands and toes and had to turn back. The river of Acheron features in Greek mythology as the gate to Hades… Despite the sunshine when we got back to the car we turned up the heaters and put on everything we had to warm up. Those icy waters would have put out the fires of hell!

When we arrived back at the boatyard the beautiful catamaran was at last ready for launch and we held our breath as she was lifted and then very slowly lowered into the water – all 19 tons of her!

So the adventure could begin.. after a bit more waiting as it turned out!

Into the deep

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What are you scared of? I guess we don’t know the answer until we’re faced with something that makes our stomach turn upside down.

I love swimming but a few days ago we tied up in a little harbour after a long sail and walked along the quay to the beach. The water was crisp and clear and you could see right down to the sloping white sand below. We both plunged in to cool off.

“Wow!” came the exclamation, “that’s deep!” The skipper a few metres further out than me, pointed below. I stuck my head down and saw a steep bank of sand disappearing into blue and deeper blue and more blue! The steeply shelving beach had the feeling of stepping off a precipice. My stomach did a tumble as I back paddled away.

We can both swim well and in deep water, but there was something different about this, like standing close to a cliff, as if I was suspended above the drop. Neither of us felt keen to venture over the drop which we called “the deep”. It was quite ridiculous considering we’ve jumped into the sea mid sail hundreds of times in much deeper water and felt fine.

After our trip to the beach we met a Greek sailor who told us some of the secrets of this hidden harbour on the south of Halkidiki’s middle peninsula.

He told us it had been a secret submarine base during the Second World War. The deep natural harbour with its hidden entrance between the cliffs had even had a metal net across the entrance to stop enemy boats getting in. All around the surrounding hills had been huge canons standing watch. He said one of these now lay on the sea bed below.

The story of the submarines somehow confirmed my deepest fears of something unknown lurking unseen below, a bit like the Loch Ness monster!

After a few days sailing around the peninsulas, we returned to Porto Koufo yesterday and went back to the beach.

“Let’s go into the deep,” I said.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes we have to face our fears!”

We laughed and both put our heads down and headed out. Through my goggles I could see the sand slipping away and the blue below becoming bluer. We both looked up and trod water – no giant squids snapped at our toes, no monsters bared their teeth below us. We were still OK. Nothing to be afraid of really! Still after a few minutes we headed back to the safety of the sand and enjoyed the feel of something solid between our toes.

Last night in the restaurant we heard more stories from would-be psychology student, 17-year-old Nicole, our waitress for the evening. Her grandfather had set up the first Taverna here after the war. There were tales of bombs being made in a cellar and tunnels in the hillside where you can still see the remains of the Nazi control rooms.

This is a place of history and beauty. We love the ramshackle quay, with its huge metal bollards for ropes, the fishermen waiting patiently all night by their rods and feeding stray cats with the unwanted catches.

Tomorrow we will leave Porto Koufo and “the deep” behind us to make the passage back to the Sporades islands. We will be heading into another kind of “deep” hoping for fair winds. The unknown is always a little scary, whether it’s new places or fresh challenges. I get a little nervous each time we come into a new anchorage or port, uncertain how we’ll do tying up or getting our anchor set. But each time we swim over the edge and face the fear we get a little bolder and braver, hopefully!

Although facing my fears doesn’t help me being rubbish at lassoing ropes over bollards ( Thank you to the old sailor who helped us tie up yesterday, reassuring me as I ‘misthrew’ the rope yet again, by saying, “Slow, slow, slow, no rush – we sailors have all the time in the world”! ) I should have taken his advice this morning too as I rushed up the boat steps for the umpteenth time and tripped re grazing my shin, all before breakfast! My body is now tattooed with the stories from this trip, a selection of tell tale bruises, scars and mosquito bites.

Listening to the wind whistling through the mast today, I am sure there will be more to come!

The ghost of Thorney Island

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I’m not afraid of ghosts. These past few weeks I’ve been living with a very lovable one and I don’t think he’ll disappear until all the boxes are packed and the removal van chugs off down the road.

It’s three years since we arrived to live on Thorney Island, in the heart of Chichester Harbour. I never expected to become so attached to this place, but it has a way of seeping into your soul. I’ll miss the rattle of the halyards from the boat yard, the whirr of planes overhead, even the noisy chatter from the squirrels.

Most of all I’ll miss the shoreline; its rhythmic beauty as the tide slides in and out, alternately masking and revealing the bright green grass and muddy banks that lie beneath. I’ll miss my walks to the beach, watching white sails glide past the fields and breathing in those big skies that stretch right out to the Isle of Wight. I’ll definitely miss the swimming at all heights of tide and in all temperatures – including Christmas Day – knowing a hot shower awaits just around the corner. I’ll also miss the serenity and the sound of nothing but birdsong, most of the time.

Today, as I wander through the empty rooms of magnolia walls and beige carpets, merging into one, it feels as if our time here has been sucked up with the final hoover. There is barely a sign that our family, and particularly our cat, ever lived here.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw him around every corner. I heard the rattle of the cat flap – even when it had been removed. I heard his meowing chatter as he arrived in from a night of hunting and saw his face at the window peering in. It has been like living with a ghost – the ghost of Simba past.

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Simba was the Cypriot cat who arrived without warning in our garden in Cyprus one morning, and who for the past five years has been a big part of our family. None of us are keen on cats and yet he found his way into our hearts and it was very painful to see him waste away over the last few months and eventually succumb to his illness.

Simba was a character. He accompanied us on walks beside the sea, he scared off spaniels beside the sailing club with his massive mane spread out and back arched high, he stalked squirrels, caught mice, sunbathed on the decking and was the longest cat living when he stretched out on the settee. He was also very beautiful and loved to cuddle up close, nestling into your neck on a cold winter’s night. He was known as the ‘Lion Cat’ by our neighbours – knick-named for his fantastic mane and lion colouring.

Now it really is goodbye Simba and farewell Thorney Island. The two will stay together and when we return, as I’m sure we will, we’ll pause by his favourite pine scratching tree and remember our time here with one member of the family who is sorely missed, but not forgotten.

 

 

a turtle for company

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It was 6am and the sun was creeping up the horizon with a smudge of pink appearing behind the trees lining the bay. Yesterday, I was the lone swimmer crossing the calm waters to the far side… well I thought I was. As I peered down to the ripples of sand on the sea bed I was very happy to spot a friendly turtle munching his way along just below me and a few moments later I watched him pop his head up for air as he checked out my front crawl style. Ploughing on from one salmon pink buoy to another it was comforting to think that there was someone or some thing out there with me.
   
 It’s that time of year again, when a few mad swimmers prepare for the island’s Bay2Bay swim. Friday morning will be a 4am start for those of us travelling from the other side of Cyprus for the open water swim of 1 nautical mile around from one cliff lined bay to another. We’ve been told to take breakfast and a pillow. I’m worried I will be even slower than last year, despite mastering front crawl, I find myself needing to break into breast stroke to calm my breathing… so ‘mastered’ probably isn’t the right word. But whatever my ‘time’ I’m determined to enjoy it – it will definitely be a lot warmer than swimming in the English channel or even the Solent. Something I will have to adjust to very soon.
The imminence of our move back to the UK this September was brought home today as I passed the first set of folded packing boxes at the top of the stairs along with some giant reels of sellotape. I remember this well – my life of ‘packing boxes’ – which is exactly where this blog began more than two years ago. Now the next adventure begins.
It’s not quite as exciting as a foreign posting, but I am looking forward to coming ‘home’ to be nearer friends and family and moving to our very own small Island… which we will share with a few hundred other army families and personnel!

As much as I love the UK I know I’m going to miss:

  • looking up at the stars while floating in a sun-warmed pool
  • never worrying about the weather for a BBQ
  • clothes – not wearing many
  • living life outside
  • mediterranean food – especially bags of free oranges and grapefruits
  • palm trees in the garden and crystal blue waters in the sandy bays
  • our view of the mountains
  • the sound of crickets buzzing day and night
  • visits to the numerous cafes, bars and restaurants we love
  • But more than all this I’ll miss the friends we’ve made, some of whom are moving on too, but others who we hope will give us the perfect excuse to return and visit in the future.

So packing boxes can wait a few more days because the sun is shining, the crickets are singing and there’s swim training to be done!
   
 

now for something completely different

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As the Church of England and much of the media world are focused on the vote on women bishops today, I’m turning my attention to a different challenge.

I’ve put myself into training after rashly deciding to enter for the Bay2Bay swim in about 10 days time. It’s an open water swimming event of one nautical mile (1.9km) from one bay to another on the other side of the island. It happens very early in the morning and everyone wears hats, goggles, long legged serious costumes and lots of Vaseline. Last year I watched my son head into the water amidst the crowd, like a waddle of penguins (yes, that is the official group name), they rushed towards the water and soon became a blur of white water heading out to sea. It looked a bit like a mass shark attack – but that wouldn’t be a happy thought. At the time, I thought, I should do that next year – although it did look a slightly scary and a long way round the cliff lined bay to the next.

So, 12 months on I have been training – after finding myself committed late one night in the bar, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. But I’ve always enjoyed swimming and thought I was probably OK at it. That was before I joined a couple of mates at the pool. As I launched into the water attempting my very best breaststroke, I was a little put off to find them passing me on either side, heads bobbing up and down rhythmically at a speed I couldn’t hope to match. ‘Oh dear’, or words to that effect, I thought, maybe I shouldn’t be doing this…it will take me all day.

Back home in a smaller pool I attempted to perfect my breaststroke. Someone was on hand with lots of tips… my knees weren’t coming up tightly enough, I needed to push back with my feet flat against the water… kick harder, pull the water with your hands… I swear I got slower and more uncoordinated. There was even a video of someone doing breaststroke to watch. It didn’t help.

Next session, I tried to kick harder and wider and pull more with my arms. I ended up nearly disjointing my hips. I decided to risk it and try front crawl instead – the stroke most of the swimmers were ploughing up and down the pool with. After three or four strokes I almost drowned, I couldn’t breathe… so it was back to my tortoise-like breaststroke.

Last week I was pleased to be able to complete 50 lengths in 50 minutes – that was progress. My goggles had stopped leaking…someone pointed out I had them on upside down! There was a bit of a set back when we discovered the 64 lengths we had been aiming at had turned into 78… as a nautical mile is longer than an ordinary mile. The real test, we were told, would be trying to swim in the sea.

So on Saturday I set off as early as possible to a nearby bay, to see if I could go the distance in the waves. A line of marker buoys marked the route across – which was 400 metres – I would need to do this four and half times to cover the equivalent distance for the Bay2Bay. This time I had a hat, goggles and my secret weapon ‘natural buoyancy’…

Strangely enough, because I float so easily, swimming in the sea was easier. Apart from swallowing a lot of salt water and the waves pushing me in the wrong direction, I soon got into a rhythm. My spotter from the shore hardly recognized the white cap bobbing up and down as it moved across the bay – Michael Phelps eat your heart out. Although I don’t think his bottom was quite as high out of the water as mine. I did it. But that was just the practice.

The challenge now is to keep up the training and my nerve for the event next week.

In the meantime, I’m hoping and praying the CofE rises to its own challenge and finally agrees to allow women to become bishops. If it does, I’ll be tempted to marker pen a mitre on my swimming cap as a tribute next Friday.