A Passage to Paignton
My girlfriend
and I stand on the beach, carefully covering ourselves in a thick layer of sun
cream, which is followed by a layer of Vaseline. The beach, Torre Abbey Sands,
is packed with people; dedicated sun worshippers making the most of the British
summer. Behind the beach the road is equally busy, choked with an endless, slow
moving stream of cars that crawls along the coast, ferrying its frustrated
passengers to Paignton, the next town along the English Riviera. We too are
heading for Paignton, though we have elected not to follow the three mile flow
of this stifling, stupefying river of glistening metal. Instead, with one last,
anxious adjustment of the goggles we plunge headfirst
into the shallow waters. We are swimming to Paignton.
Everything around me is a mix of blue and bubbles
until my head emerges from below the waves. I take a deep breath and launch into
my stroke. Slowly settling into a rhythm, with every stroke I see the sea floor
rushing away, sloping gently down into nothingness until I am surrounded by a
rainbow of blues. At the surface, where the sun streams through, the sea is of
the palest blue, gradually fading through an entire spectrum until, far below
us, is the deepest blue imaginable, bordering on black and stretching
away to a depth unknowable. With each breath I take I am wrenched away from this
silent world of mystery, my eyes momentarily catching sight of the people
lounging on the beach, the cars gridlocked on the road or the vast emptiness of
the open sea.
Within minutes
we have left the beach behind, rounding the first of the rocky headlands that
separate the small, sheltered coves of the Torbay coast. Conditions are perfect,
the sea flat and calm, and the coolness of the water refreshing compared to the
heat of the town we have left behind. For company we have only the screeching
gulls that circle overhead and the occasional cormorants perched serenely on a
rocky islet that pokes above the water. The dark red cliffs tower above us,
fringed with a thin line of green grass, and to the other side the sea stretches
away to the horizon. Although only a few hundred metres from a busy beach, and
the main road, we are completely alone, isolated in a true wilderness.
We cross the
next bay and round the next headland, where the scene changes dramatically. The
wind, which had been virtually non-existent onshore, picks up as we leave the
shelter of the bay, pushing hard against us, driving up a serious chop and
flinging flecks of water from the top of the waves into our faces. We push on
but the wind never tires and the water begins to feel colder as the battle
against the weather saps our energy. We swim as close to the shore as possible,
but the rough red sandstone cliffs that rise vertically from the churning water
offer no chance of respite. The danger of being dashed against them forces us to
keep away. Slowly, very slowly we progress, forcing our way through the water
until eventually, with great relief, we pass the tip of the headland and move
into the sanctuary of the next bay. Rounding that headland has broken the back
of the journey, but has come perilously close to breaking us as well. Cold and
exhausted we drag ourselves ashore on Hollicombe Beach and take great pleasure
in lying on the huge, flat boulders that litter the beach.
Tired as we
are, almost asleep on the warm, soothing rocks, we have little choice but to
give up our berths and gingerly head back out to sea. The water, which felt so
invigorating on our first entry, is brutally cold but we know that the distance
remaining is small. We push out around the set of high red cliffs that separates
this beach from the next, bracing ourselves for the worst the weather can throw
at us. Fortunately, this headland is smaller than the last and the wind barely
raises a wavelet, giving us time to take stock of our surroundings. High up in
the side of the cliff stands an old wooden door, with a row of precarious steps
cut into the cliff below leading down to the water’s edge. It conjures images of
smugglers and adventure, a secret world invisible from the shore.
As we land on
the next beach, Preston, we know that the distance to Paignton Beach is tiny,
but we are beaten. We console ourselves with the fact that Preston is,
technically, part of Paignton and walk the rest of the way to Paignton Beach
along the road, dripping wet and in only our swimming costumes, while the slow
moving traffic trundles blissfully by.
