Cutting A Dash

With us a month now, Dash has been doing really well. He's full of energy and just can't get enough walks - racing to catch balls and any toys we throw for him. I had him weighed at the vet's on Tuesday and he's lost 2.2kg since he came to us, which is remarkable going. He's still got a bit to lose though.

As it's half term we're up in the Northeast for a couple of days. We went down to Tynemouth yesterday morning and he was thrilled to be on the beach, running and running, on the sand and in the sea.

At teatime we took him down to the beach at Whitley Bay and again, he had a whale of a time. The tide was coming in fast, so we went up to the promenade near a local landmark, the Rendezvous Cafe, to walk back to the car.

 Dash trotted ahead of us then, to our complete horror, ran back at the low sea wall, and jumped it, oblivious of the twenty foot drop on the other side.

He landed on the rocks with a gut-wrenching thump and a yelp. Panic-stricken, we ran down to the beach and Pete carried him up to the car - no mean feat.

We took him to a great local vet's. They kept him in overnight for intravenous pain relief and observation, and booked him in to an equally great animal hospital to have his leg and jaw examined today. The concern was that the upper jaw was split and leg ligaments torn. None of us slept well last night as we were still in shock at what had happened.

After a day in hospital, undergoing general anaesthesia, CT scan and x-rays the good news is that he's home and only needed to have four broken incisors removed. Unbelievably, nothing more radical. We can't get our heads round how lucky we've been not to lose him - he's zonked out on the floor, sleeping off his awful ordeal.  And thank God we'd decided to opt for insurance, praise be for Petplan...

Swimming and Poetry Weekend Round-up

Photo courtesy of Terry Wha

Today in the Review section of the Guardian, Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy has commissioned another poetry special (like the ones about war and ageing) on the subject of sport. Her contribution to the article is her poem 'The Shirt', mentioned here yesterday. 

We don't normally get the Independent newspaper, but as my dad is here for the weekend and it's his regular Saturday read, we bought it too. Serendipitously, it has a feature - 'The 50 best swimming pools', which highlights an interesting selection.

Obviously it doesn't include Tynemouth pool, since it's now derelict, but the photos above show how fantastic it was in its heyday. The colour one was taken only 40 years ago. With the upsurge of interest in outdoor swimming, I'm sure there'd be lots of people who'd use it, in the unlikely event of it ever being dug out of retirement.

Break Away

We're up in the North East for a little Easter break, and here's the Spanish City in its heyday. Still an incredible landmark, and iconic childhood location but sadly no longer like this postcard from the archives. 

No surfers in the sea at Tynemouth today - strange that - but two swimmers were out there... brrrrr. Didn't bring the wetsuits - or the swimming togs - coulda, shoulda, woulda. No, not really.

Next time we're here I'll get in the sea (probably) and I'll have my 12 megapixel cameraphone ! so I'll be able to take some complicated  seaside shots.

  

The tide was low when we walked on Tynemouth beach and this is the view into the derelict swimming pool from the other end of the water inlet that I featured on my December 31 post.

Last Post (2009)

This afternoon we came back home to Manchester, but not until we'd had our last walk for the year/decade on Tynemouth beach. The tide was rolling in, the sea wild again. Today a solitary surfer had decided to try his luck but didn't look as if his heart was in it. 

We visited a favourite haunt - Tynemouth outdoor pool. 

Built in the 1920's, it fell into disuse/was condemned and filled with sand and rocks during the 90's. When the tide is high the waves crash around it in a spectacular fashion. There are thrills and spills dodging the waves as they threaten from over the railings.

Old swimming pools fascinate me, I love the architectural features -

- but the thought of encountering this inlet while swimming underwater both thrills and terrifies me! 

I've seen Youtube footage of people having fun in the pool during its heyday. It's a shame that it's been pensioned off

as I'm sure there are outdoor swimmers aplenty in the North East who'd happily make full use of this facility and build up their resistance to the cold by swimming here!

I've enjoyed taking photos with my phone recently, but the cost of sending them to my blog has started to tot up. I'm going to get a decent camera in 2010 and improve the picture quality and keep costs down.

I want to give the final word for this year to Seamus Heaney. This poem is one of my absolute favourites. I take permission from it to ignore the impulse to reach for the camera sometimes, and  just enjoy the moment!

Happy New Year!!

Postscript
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park and capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

Seamus Heaney
from ‘The Spirit Level’.

St Mary's Island

Another bitterly cold day at Whitley Bay. On the seafront, no beach to be seen, just white horses hurling themselves against the promenade wall. We drive to St Mary's Island to see the lighthouse, now retired from active service, but a well-loved landmark. The causeway is submerged under a boisterous sea. I take some photos which turn out better than I'd thought possible in the spray. I ponder how long a swimmer could survive these conditions. Grace Darling, lighthouse-keeper's daughter and local heroine from Bamburgh, just a few miles up the coast, rowed a boat out in seas like these to save desperate passengers from ships wrecked on the rocky coast. They must have been thrilled to see her! A wild wave crashes against the railings and soaks us, so we save our skins and race to the shelter of the car.  

We make our way down the coast to Tynemouth to check if the surfers are mad enough to brave these elements. It turns out they are not mad after all. Although the sea is less ferocious than at the lighthouse, it's still scary and no surfers are chancing it today. Thank goodness!

A very large ferry is easing out of the Tyne into the open sea and huge waves buffer the front of the ship. If I were the pilot, I'd turn back at this point but s/he is obviously made of sterner stuff than me!

Our final  port of call before heading for home is Spanish Battery, where the Tyne flows into the North Sea. Here's another view of the lighthouses that I wrote about earlier in the week. The sea looks deceptively tame.

Surf's Up

We're up in the  North East for a few days. Tynemouth beach was a popular spot when we went down for a late afternoon walk. The air was brisk, the sand crunchy with frost underfoot, but there was a big swell, so those fearless surfers were out there making the most of the choppy sea. I didn't bring the wetsuits up here with us on purpose - I didn't want to torture myself with the question of whether I should or shouldn't swim. My thumbs stung with cold just from taking these photos. I enjoyed simply walking and watching as the sky grew darker and the moon cast a picturebook light off the rolling waves. It made me think of sea illustrations by the artist Hilda Boswell - I loved her books when I was a child.

The beach was dark within half an hour so we retreated to the welcoming lights of Crusoe's Cafe for a hot chocolate.

Oh, we do like to be beside the seaside

Three cheers for the Panama Swimming Club, Whitley Bay! Hip, hip, hooray! They swim in the North Sea every Sunday at 11am, come rain, hail or shine. No wetsuits allowed! The only thing that keeps them out is dangerous water conditions. Ten brave souls were there this morning (sea temperature 14C) - I salute you. We marvelled at them when we were walking our dog at the water's edge. I considered putting on my costume and joining them, but in the event I was too chicken. Maybe I will get my nerve together and join them for their piece de resistance - the New Year's Day swim in January 2010.

Whitley Bay is the first beach I ever knew, the first sea where I paddled - or plodged as it was called in the family. My extended family - grandma, aunts, uncles, cousins - met here each August Bank Holiday throughout my childhood. We would spend the afternoon on the beach and in the sea, followed by an hour or two on the rides at the Spanish City, then back to my aunt's for tea. Happy days! Who'd have imagined that years later I would meet and marry a man from here and continue my alliance with this beautiful place.

This afternoon, two of our kids had a surf lesson on Tynemouth beach and I shoehorned myself into the wetsuit for more outdoor swimming practice. Unfortunately for the surfers, the waves weren't massive, but the sea was lovely for fish like me. It's the first time I've worn my wetsuit in the sea. It makes a big difference - the difference between 'no, I'll not bother, it's too cold,' and 'actually, this is wonderful!'

Front crawl is now emerging as my natural choice of stroke when I'm in the wetsuit. The sea was clear and I kept my eyes open, practising the skill of reining in my imagination. I freaked out when I saw a lobster and a crab lurking on the rippled sand beneath me. Calm down! It was only seaweed, but it doesn't take much to trigger the adrenalin. Today washed away the unpleasantness at Boundary. I left the water four times, but I had to keep returning as I hadn't had enough - the magical pull of the sea.