Janet Gogerty's Blog: Sandscript - Posts Tagged "the-solent"

'The Water's Lovely' is the title of the Ruth Rendell paperback I have been reading at our beach hut - you can read my review here on Goodreads. An appropriate title, though the story is about a drowning in the bath.
The only water some beach hut owners come into contact with is that which comes out of the stand pipe to fill their kettles. For myself and others one of the benefits of a beach hut is a handy changing room for sea swimming. My first swim of the year in May was at 11 degrees, yesterday the sea temperature had gone up to 16 degrees. It is not easy wading into the cold sea, but the thought of the beach hut shelter and kettle boiling for a hot drink helps boost morale.
So why do it? People go in The Solent all year round, much to the entertainment of onlookers and photographers. In wet suits they surf, body board, kite surf out to the horizon or power through the waves freestyle as if in practice for a channel crossing. Every Sunday morning at Boscombe Pier, from October to April, the Bournemouth Spartans, aged ten to ninety, extol the healthy virtues of winter sea swimming. At least they enjoy the benefit of warm showers; on other mornings on any stretch of the beach you may see a solitary bike propped up with a pile of clothes on the saddle and a towel on the handlebars. A swimmer will emerge for a quick salty rub down, then jump on his or her bike. I have seen an elderly, very arthritic man regularly hobble down to the water's edge with a human and dog companion and plunge in.
I don't possess any equipment except a swimming costume. I swim parallel to the shore, within my depth, east to the next groyne, pain turning to numbness. As I turn around, the warm glow has usually arrived and if the afternoon sun is shining in my face it is exhilarating; I know why I am doing it and the water is lovely.
Cold freshwater shower on the promenade, brisk walk up to the beach hut. If it is sunny I sit and soak up the warmth. If the sun has disappeared behind black clouds and a stiff breeze blown up, then I wrap up with plenty of layers and enjoy my coffee. Either way, it is time to scribble some more of my novel, I have usually planned another scene while in the sea.
It is a beach hut, not a beach house; a calor gas ring, enough room for folding chairs, cupboards, shelves and hooks. A tiny wooden shed; we own the wood, the council owns the square of concrete it sits on, but it is large enough for its purpose and affords a great view of the Isle of Wight and The Purbecks. For a taste of the seaside visit my website.

http://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk

Why would you go to the beach then sit in a wooden box, commented an Australian visitor on viewing rows of beach huts. Of course, beach hut owners hope to be sitting outside them in the sun, stepping inside only to get changed with modesty; after all, beach huts started as bathing machines wheeled down to the water. But most of them are boxes, similar in design to a cardboard box laid on its side with the flaps out. If you want a designer beach hut with style and bunk beds it will cost you as much as a house.
But our little six foot boxes have their charm. In summer the contents of the huts are spread out on the promenade, creating a home from home with tables, parasols, bottles of wine and BBQs leaving little room for passers by. Our hut is ‘upstairs’ on a narrow balcony, more private, but without much room for visitors. If everybody used their beach huts at the same time it would be chaos. With an inch between neighbours there is an etiquette of sorts; hello and remark about the weather on arrival, then allow them to return to their book or paper.
This summer the sea is further away from our hut, the beach has been replenished. In the natural order cliffs crumble and turn into sand, replacing the beach eroded by tides and currents. As soon as humans improve their access to the sea, with promenades and zig zag paths, beach erosion becomes a problem. The cliffs still crumble, but take with them houses and cliff lifts.
During the winter and spring our view of The Purbecks was obliterated with two storey portacabins and War of the Worlds mechanical aliens. Pile drivers dug down twice the height of a man, digging out old wooden groynes and implanting new ones. Then the dredgers appeared out at sea, huge pipes snaked along the beach; sand and water were pumped from the Solent.
So there was plenty of beach to sit on in the recent hot spell, but not yet smoothed by the tides; swimmers fell into the water and clambered back up steep shingle banks.
But the crowds were enjoying the summer weather with only the occasional beach prat of the day. From our beach hut we heard angry voices, was this an 'incident'? No, a man was sitting at the water’s edge, ignoring his family, his flailing, gesticulating arms the clue that we were listening in to a conversation on his mobile phone.
That wasn’t the only disturbance, the little used hut next door came to life with the family from hell. Different people each time, but we assume they are related, because there is a familiar pattern of behaviour. Children return from the sea, loud discussion ensues about what they want to eat, adult voices get louder as whining children refuse everything on offer. Then one child hits another, the prolonged crying out of all proportion to the injury received. Other beach hut residents might wish there were sharks in the Solent and the situation is not conducive to creative writing.
Read about a very different visit to the beach in a previous blog.
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...

Visit my website for pictures of local beaches.
http://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter...