This was my second time ever swimming in Loch Ard. I had not swum since the previous week, and that was in the 210m section of Glaswegian canal, with a bunch of triathletes. It is great for regular pool swimmers wanting outdoor water exposure in a controlled environment. John and Crawford run the classes professionally. It was an experience, better than a pool, but a poor comparison without the expanse and natural feel of a loch. I realised if I want to become more efficient at swimming that will allow me to meander up and down lochs further and faster, I will need to get a few lessons. I’ve learned with a couple of activities that some tuition pays dividends.

I stayed in Plymouth for a while and a few of my friends became regular golfers. It started with about 10 of us playing on Sunday afternoons at the local pitch and putt in between Peverell and Plymouth Argyle football club. The Royal and Ancient St Andrews golf society might not have approved but we let girls play. It was a good laugh, helped by the fact we always had more tins of beer than golf clubs. We adhered to some golf etiquette, letting smaller groups play through, after all it takes a few hours for a group of ten to play 18 holes, even longer when we all played rubbish and the girls were better than the blokes.

A few of us became interested in playing golf regularly. I caught the bug quite badly. When my friends were busy I would go to the course by myself. When the weather was poor, I would head for the driving range. When my wife (girlfriend at the time) and the girls from the flat above where we lived went to the bar, I would head across to the grass opposite our flat, armed with a sandwedge (it’s a golf club not an “Isotonic super-food cheese, beetroot, left over beer-can chicken and lime pickle” sandwich), a handful of golf balls and a pint of White Russian (made with equal measures) then proceed to chip balls into a bucket, refilling the pint glass as required, until the balls were going in the wrong direction or I was relaxed enough to handle 4 mad drunk girls shouting more tequila at the poor barman.

I had started working offshore at the time with loads of free days to enjoy on my time off. Clare showed a little concern when I was out on the golf course myself most days, although golf courses are relatively safe spaces. Playing golf continued after we moved back to Scotland but I also started hillwalking. Being up a hill with big rocks and cliffs and the unpredictable Scottish weather ramped up Clare’s concern for my safety as I wandered bens and glens on my lonesome. My next fixation was with mountain biking, this also didn’t help Clare’s anxiety levels as I would huff and puff a bike up a hill, and then hurtle down at speed with no one else to help if I landed on ma big stainbrain. So I did what any good husband would do and find another activity that was considered slightly more dangerous than the previous hobbies and started swimming in lochs. I think the mortality rate is better with swimming, you just get less second chances.
Recently I quoted to Clare something from another blog, it read that statistically, it’s more dangerous driving to an outside swimming location than it is actually swimming there. Quoting daft statistics didn’t alleviate Clare’s worries, it doesn’t help when it went on to mention that it is still 30 times safer to swim in a pool. But I couldn’t swim in a pool every day. It’s not the blue line, I actually find the line a wee bit calming, the tumble turns are an unnecessary hassle if you’re swimming in a loch. I think it’s the lack of freedom. In an empty Loch Lubnaig on a Wednesday morning, I am lucky if I sight every 200m. It’s the stroke, next stroke breath staring down into the murky depths that keeps me going. It’s hard enough to figure out how to kick my legs, never mind look up every so often and there’s no walls to tumble turn against.
It might be that after 4 weeks confined on a boat for work that I choose to spend most of the week days on my lonesome, but most people, golf, hill walk, or mountain bike on the weekends when I am spending time with my family trying to correct and make up for not being at home six months of the year.
Drinking White Russians and chipping golf balls for hours helped my short game and I got more accurate round the green. But my long irons and drives were woeful. I finally got a lesson at a driving range up on the moors past Derriford hospital near Yelverton. My golf ball’s trajectory went up to the left then faded right and dropping quite rapidly out of the sky. The golf professional encouraged me to complete my swing as it had no confidence and the power reduced before hitting the ball. By pushing through the ball with confidence and completing the swing, I gained an extra 50 yards on each club and they went straight, all within ten minutes. I realised I was not an anomaly, golf swings are individual, but most problems are common and once spotted can be worked on. I am hoping swimming is the same.
My first swimming lesson was in a pool. Looking on the interweb, there wasn’t many swimming instructors with open water experience, I was starting to learn most swimmers only swam in pools. Not many folk swam outside. I contacted the first local instructor I found claiming open water experience. She worked at a local pool, but it was closed for maintenance. She was not able to give instruction or lessons at other pools. So getting guidance would have to be covert. We agreed to rendezvous at a different local pool. She would not be able to stand and watch, but swim close to me due to the restrictions. My swimming stroke was not altered at this lesson. This may seem like an expensive waste of time, however she showed me a way to swim outside safely by suggesting I join the local wild swimming Facebook group. They have over 500 members and their regular posts and photographs of safe swimming locations instilled confidence in me that I was not a weirdo. There are lots of people on the quest for rush of endorphins and shaky hands from immersion in lochs and rivers. I do try and swim with them as often as possible, however their swims are mostly evening or weekends and I have only met 5 of their members in half a year.

By the time the Friday morning canal swim came I had swum 9 km over 2 days in Loch Lubnaig in water temperatures hovering close to 9 degrees after a 6 am start which did not allow for much sleep and respite. My first session with the triathletes was not the most energetic. I am still discovering how physically draining swimming is. I swam for less than 2 hours on 2 consecutive days and was wiped out for the next few days. I have learned the hard way not to overdo it with running. I can run 5km day after day. My knees hurt if I run 10km a day for three days and then I limp for the next three. These are the limits I’m trying to find with swimming. How far? How cold? How often? Maybe when I find these answers boredom will set in and the search for another hobby will continue…… My wife will be hoping for something less life threatening so she will be able to relax at her work if she knows I am happily drinking peppermint tea at a watercolour painting or pottery class.

I was cream crackered during the canal swimming class. I felt as though I was running on fumes. But they did point out that my arms were crossing in front of my head making me snake my hips which was sending me left.

The first chance to practice what I had been told was at Loch Ard. There is a one and a half foot wall following the 5 mile single track road from Aberfoyle to Kinloch Ard. Round every corner on the twisty road that could be from an old cliché biscuit tin lid . It’s breathtaking. Deciduous trees overhanging the road on the right, the makings of the River Forth over wall, on the left, if drivers don’t concentrate they could quite easily get wet. In March with water temperatures below 5 degrees I swam close to the wee island Eilean Gorm or the Green Island. Gorm could be blue or green but because of Frank McGarvey, I like the idea of a green island. Eilean Gorm sits in the south-west corner about 1km from the Loch Ard Hall in the north-west corner. Standing in the rain, taking water temperature just above 10 degrees, I decided to leave my gloves and boots on the shoreside. My swimming left a lot to be desired and I struggled to find a rhythm.

Just as I reached the island, beams of sunlight cut through the murky depths. It had stopped raining and I dawdled round Eilean Gorm, doing a lot more breast stroke than my Strava time/distance recorder found acceptable, taking in the blue skies and hills in the background. The swim might not have ticked technique, time or distance boxes, but if you don’t like the weather in Scotland, wait 15 minutes and everything will turn out alright, but then again, the wind and snow could arrive…..

Note to self.

Next week I won’t swim until I have dissipated all my energy. Every day is a school day.