Sunrise, solstice, sisterhood

We're beautiful, and we (nearly) always remember the important things

Women are amazing

I don’t have a gang (unlike my mother and her posse of crones, who can be found either marching up and down the paths and byways of Wales, or on a plane jetting off to Malta or the Baltic; I need a tracking device for her, she’s never home) so when I booked my ticket for the summer solstice swim at Pells Pool in Lewes, I did it with the full intention and expectation of going alone. It’s not (just) that I’m introverted and my friends aren’t all local, my modus operandi is a mix of overplanning and spontaneity - a hard combination to weave into plans with others.

For instance, I woke at 4.10am precisely so went with it. Got up, slipped into my bathing suit and a strappy dress in the bathroom, tiptoed downstairs being careful to miss the creaky treads, picked up my swim bag and car keys and headed out alone. Unfortunately there’s no way to silently start and back a diesel car off a sloping driveway, but I made my escape as swiftly as I could while everyone else slept on.

I’m an incomer to Sussex, I’ve not lived here 30 years yet and never expected to stay, so I’m still taken aback by just how beautiful it can be, especially this time of year (my favourite season anyway). As I approached Lewes, which sits in a notch between the hills of the South Downs, I glanced over and down, and the fields and hedgerows below were still wrapped in mist, like they were wearing thick woolly white scarves.

I’d been daydreaming about a post-swim cinnamon bun on the drive in, so went the slightly longer way into town, up the steep high street past the smart Georgian-fronted building (some parts of the building date from the 14th century) where I worked many lifetimes ago, typing like a demon and fuelled by thoughts of a jam doughnut on Friday. I shared an office with two ladies who also shared a first name, lets call them C1 and C2, and we took it in turns to bring in the doughnuts at the end of the week and I’m not sure C1 has ever truly forgiven me for the one time I forgot.

Driving up the hill, I slowed down past the artisan bakery to inspect the opening hours. 9 o’clock! That’s practically lunchtime, and proof that excellent though their baked goods are, it’s a lifestyle shop and not a true bakery. Despite being only a few doors up from the office where I worked, it didn’t exist all those years ago, and wouldn’t have solved the no-doughnut crisis even if it had - far too posh for a trashy jammy doughnut!

C1 and 2 were my very first friends here in Sussex. I worked for two solicitors, one was incredibly laid back with a kaftan-clad wife, very Lewes, who sometimes floated in to meet him for lunch; the other was as verbose as the first was chilled, so typing his opaque but lengthy letters took up most of my time. It’s taken years to train myself out of using ten words when one will do, but it’s a very hard habit to break and it’s all his fault. C1 worked for head of department (why she’s 1 not 2) and C2 worked for an absolutely vile man, whose next secretary, after C2 cracked and decided she couldn’t put up with his hissy-fits any more, only lasted a week - and the replacement for her lasted even less time than that.

We all worked far harder than our bosses realised, too good for them really - especially the ones who thought that because we were ‘only’ secretaries, that’s all we could do - (and I’m not just talking about the men. Just before I left, I was reallocated to work for a fusty tweed-clad older lady who insisted on dictating every single line of a letter including how to set out the address, and which details to put where in the conveyancing forms 🙄 the assumption I only had one brain cell might have a lot to do with why I left). The two Cs and I were a good team, sticking up for each other and helping out if (when) the stack of tapes and files got out of hand.

We more or less stayed in touch when we went our separate ways, less rather than more as the years passed. But delightfully, C2 has now joined the choir I go to - albeit as a soprano, so we don’t sit together but occasionally cross the divide to have a chat. I’ve bumped into C1 a couple of times, usually in a charity shop as she’s a great fan of vintage bits and pieces, and I always look out for her costume when I watch Lewes bonfire on TV (too dangerous to go in person!)

Back to the swim. All the way to Lewes, the roads had been unsurprisingly empty. As I snaked my way through the one-way system, I moved over to let another car join behind me as I took the left filter down towards the car park (free before 9am, good to know) and we all followed another car, all driving into the same car park, and a few more turned up shortly after. And lo - all female, of a certain age, solo or in a pair, with towel-topped bags and sandals. Aha, you are my people.

By the time we’d walked round the corner to the entrance, it was still only 4.50am so the gates were shut. So we all walked on a little further and joined the queue by the wall. Of course we did. We know how this works, it’s as natural as breathing. Queue? Yes. And everyone waited quietly and patiently, had a little chat, and a few of us tried to take a photo over the wall, to capture the sun as it started to rise over the pool. We all agreed on two things: first, it was a beautiful day for a swim, and second, nobody else in our family understood why. If we say we’re “always tired”, why we were up at silly o’clock for a swim? But we all knew why.

over the wall - dawn breaking over Pells Pool as the covers come off

The gates opened on the dot, and as we waited to have our names checked, we each sneaked a photo of the empty pool (there’s a strict no photography rule once it’s open) then found a place to base ourselves and strip off. The showers are al fresco poolside, and while there are changing rooms, a lot of people just get on with the business of dressing or undressing outdoors. It may be because I have a daughter that I tune into this, but at some point in life, probably around 45 or 50 or so, you just stop caring - not about what you look like so much, but about what other people think. Altogether, we were a fabulously representative group of women: tall ones, short ones, round ones, stringy ones, wobbly ones, toned ones, mostly old and older ones! And we all just got on with the job of getting in the water and setting sail, not worrying if anybody thought we looked lumpy in our swimsuits. Who cares?!

Goldilocks temperature - not too hot not too cold

I wasn’t sure if there was supposed to be a direction of travel for swimming, and if there was it’s no use to me as without my glasses I wouldn’t be able to make it out any way. It all seemed a bit of a free-for-all, a sort of middle-aged lady soup. The pool is 50 yards long, 25 wide, so each length is almost Olympic at 46 metres. While some chose to thrash up and down (mostly the token men) the majority took a more leisurely approach, and enjoyed a gentle drift up and down, chatting the while.

pellspool

A post shared by @pellspool

Because I almost need a calendar to measure my laps, I lost count, but I must’ve swum around a dozen lengths because as the sun rose higher it gradually became less crowded, and I realised it was quarter to six. People started to drift around the edge, wrapped in their towel with a coffee from the kiosk then sitting in the sliver of sun by the wall to dry off.

I opted to use a cubicle to get dressed as I hadn’t brought a robe, dry or otherwise. While I was wrestling my damp self back into my dress, trying to get it the right way round, another lady arrived next door. I was feeling pretty buzzy after my swim, but she was next level euphoric. She sang out a line from a song and for the life of me I can’t remember what it was which is irritating me but I do remember the impulse to sing out the next line - and spent the next few moments castigating myself for being shy. I wish I’d replied!

But then the very best of all, the moment I’ll remember for a long, long time, the moment that summed it all up for me - it absolutely made my day, and did make me laugh out loud - because at the same time as I was rummaging around in the bottom of my bag for my pants, she called out to anyone who could hear…

I’ve got my knickers!

Yep! If you’re female and from the generation that grew up mostly wearing skirts or dresses and you put your swimsuit on before arriving at the pool, there’s always that nagging thought at the back of your mind: did I pack my knickers? It actually happened once, so I’m doubly cautious - me and my best friend Sarah walked from my house to the open air pool in Twickenham (closed, now a public garden), swam, and only then realised we’d left our knickers at home and had to walk all the way back clutching our skirts…

After a much-needed hot coffee and a sit in the solstice sun as it rose above the water, we all drifted off and returned home. And still nobody was up on my return, despite the house now being like an oven (and it didn’t get much better, once I’d flung the doors and windows open). And I’m sure I wasn’t the only one from that group of women who knew, we’d had the very best of the day - a day that got progressively hotter and hotter and necessitated a little creativity in the foot-cooling department…

I wasn’t expecting to write this, I thought I was going to tell you all about another exhibition I visited on Friday; it’ll have to wait! After all, I waited six months to visit, only scraping in by a whisker before it ended, so my report can wait too.

How did you celebrate solstice?

And have you always remembered your knickers?! Probably best not answer the second question…

Until next time,