‘A little sea bathing would set me up forever,’ declares the indomitable Mrs Bennett in Pride and Prejudice.
‘The sea air and sea bathing together were nearly infallible, one or other of them being a match for every disorder.’ This from Mr Parker, in Jane Austen’s last, posthumously completed novel, Sanditon.
Having just had my annual summer sojourn at the beach, I can only concur. A fortnight at Anglesea sets me up for the rest of the year, and a lot of that is thanks to the healing powers of ‘sea bathing’.
What is it about immersing oneself in the ocean? I’m not a strong swimmer and I don’t surf. To the amusement (scorn might be more accurate) of my family, I seldom venture more than waist deep, while they, more adventurous souls, swim way out of their depth and body surf – crashing and foaming in on giant, frothy breakers.
So, if I don’t swim and don’t surf, why do I find it so exhilarating? Mainly, because being in the ocean makes me feel like a kid again. In the turbulent, salty water I lose my inhibitions. Life often fills me with so much delight I’d like to holler and dance; the sea is the only public place where I can get away with such behaviour. Once I’ve plunged in and dived through my first wave, something irresistible bubbles up inside me. I gambol and frolic, cavort and spin. I giggle and shriek.
There is something cleansing, invigorating, therapeutic, almost spiritual about being in waves. It’s connecting with the elemental. It’s like being immersed in champagne, in one’s very own massive washing machine.
There’s magic in the look of it: when the sun shines the water is golden green and utterly transparent; on cloudy days it’s a creamy greeney-grey. Both are beautiful. There’s enchantment in the sensation of it; bracing at first; soon feeling like silk as my body becomes accustomed to the temperature. Nothing on earth is quite so buoyant. When I like back and float in the sea, any tension is simply borne away.
Swimming is one of the things I never regret doing, whatever the weather. Lolling on a shady verandah with a novel, I often feel too lazy to trek to the beach, but I usually do, because I always feel better afterwards.
Of course it’s partly the holiday thing – I’m more relaxed, I’m sleeping better, I’m with the ones I love the most. It’s partly the sun and sand thing too. And the walking along shore lines– the endless vistas, the long horizons, the softness of the colours, the reflections in the wet sand.
The solitude. Which doesn’t appear to be high on the agenda of most beach goers, who flock to popular stretches of sand along our coastline like a bunch of sheep. Me, I prefer my beaches empty. And in this country, it’s not hard to find such places, even at the height of summer.
Around the corner from Anglesea main beach, a mere couple of hundred metres away from the throngs of beautiful people, the long stretch of magnificent sand and soaring cliffs that extend to Point Roadknight is almost empty, even in January. Apart from the occasional dog walkers, there are often only a dozen other people there, and I am regularly the only one in the water. From there I look across to the main beach and see the crowds, looking like hundreds and thousands.
Like so many of life’s most satisfying pleasures – ‘sea bathing’ is simple and it’s free. Every summer I have these two weeks where, no matter what else is happening in the rest of my life, I can park my cares and be a kid again several times a day. Like Mrs Bennett, a couple of weeks at the beach sets me up for the whole year to come.