A THAMES SWIM
HAMPTON COURT PALACE TO KINGSTON BRIDGE

(CHIP TIME 1:24 MINS)

The river was brown in the morning light. Viscous water, hostile and wide outside my window.

A few hours later I was one of 1000 people to swim just over two miles, in the Thames, from Hampton Court to Kingston Bridge; a fleet of bodies making solitaire patterns of Surrey waters.

Open water swimming is a passion for me. It is my way to feel 6 years old, not so much again as still; touching the surface by stealth, pushing beneath the waterline, lifting my face to breathe is what it feels like to be a child.

In recent years I have had the gift of this being possible, as a holiday.  A dear friend, perusing magazines in a dentist’s waiting room, found one advertising ‘swim treks’ in which, for me, all the best components of the elemental are combined: the romance of being allowed to cross the sea, energetic undertakings after which well fed laziness is at its sweetest.  The Greek islands, Schinoussa, Koufonissi; Croatia, The British Virgin Islands, a second trip to Greece (it being in my view the most beautiful) followed. The novelty and oneness of being able swim ‘from ..... to’ has never worn off.

But I had not considered being among the rushes and tales of the riverbank, the unexpected joy of slipping through thin, green glass water. (The muddy opaque look of Hammersmith currents must accompany the over confident boats trying to pass under its bridge, the teenagers exiting its pubs.) This was the same river, beside which I live, framed by the windows of my home.

The Thames begins in the west of England near Cirencester. On its journey, of just over 200 miles, it runs through Wiltshire, Oxfordshire, Berkshire, Buckinghamshire, and on into Middlesex and Surrey before entering London. It reaches the sea, its end, at the Thames Estuary near Southend-on-Sea.  It had passed through Pangbourne, Henley and Marlow before I joined its journey.

The starting point for the swim, the fabulously named Cigarette Park Island, is opposite Hampton Court Palace. The palace was built in 1515 by Cardinal Wolsey, Henry the VIII taking it over in 1529 following Wolsey's downfall. Ancient and literary souls must have bathed in or travelled upon these waters. From Kingston upon Thames Jerome K. Jerome and Harris and Montmorency began their "Three men in a boat" journey. I was in cream paged company. I was a nymph sliding through history.

But I was wet-suited. The rubber outline between my body and the water was unwelcome. The pleasing zip and knowledge of how to put it on are no match for the discomfort of attempting free style in such encasement. And breaststroke becomes ridiculous.  The month ahead was geared to training for a second and more iconic swim, across the Hellespont. I had understood it (as it turned out, incorrectly) that wetsuits were compulsory. I felt stifled and made the mistake, five minutes into the novelty of the start, of contemplating removing it. I have learned my lesson. Viking that I am, cold waters and no wetsuit would be my way for the future. 

Crowds made photograph line-ups of the riverbanks; a mix of those who had known of this and others surprised in their weekend walks by flanks of splash and coloured caps interrupting the skyline. 

The finish line is a somewhat surreal large white Nokia cube, seemingly suspended about 400m from Kingston Bridge. Among large chestnut trees in the parkland and towpath photographers waited, alarmingly at the ready, to capture the exit moment. On reaching the cube, I was semi-hauled from the water, via the incongruous stepping-stone of carpeted wooden decking. 

Post race moments in which the hug of the hat makes a post forceps look of the face are not the best. But the elation was there. 

Breakfast was a feast. In a month book-ended by open water swims, my mind settled on the achievement of a first race in fresh water and then leapt ahead to the Hellespont. I had almost covered its distance but it is ruled by greater currents, between Europe and Asia, where seas meet.