Smoulder or swim.

The beauty of the early morning beach in the height of summer. The 2026 summer rethink.

When I got to bed last night I chickened out of setting the alarm clock to get up for sunrise. Sleeping in this summer heat is more than a mere achievement. Robbing myself of the luxury of good sleep doesn’t seem right but as it happened I woke up early and so I kept my promise and headed to the beach for dawn. In what felt like a miracle, I was up and out of the house in twenty minutes! I surreptitiously walked up the garden path, closed the garden gate in a quiet click and smiled at the sound of the light tap of my footsteps in the sleepy freshness of a brand new day.

I headed towards the beach in the straightest line I could think of, down through the trees in my plastic beach shoes, between the houses, past the wild and wonderful tangle of deep pink and orange bougainvillea* and across at the roundabout dripping in a chaos of pink and crimson petals in a flower-fall of oleander.

The flowers were my sunrise today. Rounding the corner the landscape on the seafront was enchanting, blessed by a soft moody light and the last whispers of night. The sharp cliffs were still draped in secret. The sky itself was clear and yet strangely heavy, as if exhausted by the strain of working overtime, the furnace keeper of 2026, wired up for yet another day of scorching heat.

Many people were already walking and jogging the promenade. It was obvious I was late when I approached the beach at 7.30am. I dropped my bag and towel on dry sand and headed straight for the water. The waves were miniscule, just tall enough to caress my toes and the temperature was perfectly cooling. I walked into the clear water up to my knees as the ocean loosened its grip and unfurled towards the beach in a slow, peaceful rhythm. Instead of walking deeper toward the horizon, I found myself turning to follow the ripples in the sand running parallel to the shore. My feet moulded into the kiss moulds of sea on sand. I felt as if I was walking in the fluid footsteps of dawn.

A shoal of fish was swimming in front of me, inviting me to stroll onwards. I expected them to dart away, take a sharp corner left to lose me but no. It was as if they wanted to lead. They were nearly the size of my feet and exactly the same colour as the sand. The lazy liquid curves of sandy ripples seemed to echo their body shape, in a synchronicity of slippery figures of eight. They were perhaps having a bit of fun, laughing at my clumsy humanoid movements through the water as they slickly glided ahead, all full of themselves. Like a cat running up the tree, or a squirrel jumping branches, they had the upper hand fin!

I left the friendly fish and sunk my body into the welcoming sea. The water rose and exhaled, lifting me gently in its breath and then luring me closer towards the sand. Not more than half an hour from waking up, here I was once again floating, as if drifting in the weightless privilege of sleep. How similar the sensation of swimming in a calm sea is to the rhythm of sleep itself. How sleep can beckon us in waves, sometimes in a deeper wave, then a shallower one, until slowly we let go to a new rhythm and become more and more at one with the mercurial sensation of dreaming and less and less bothered by the details of movement and sound.

Swimming towards the ocean the sea was hypnotic. The water glowed in melting pearls, forever loosening and rebirthing, slipping from hope to promise and forgiveness, reforming and loosening from one sky-kissed oval pearl to the next.

My husband with a sleepy smile joined me for a swim. I waved to him from the sea. A small fish with a flash of white and black on its little tail circled us as we walked waist-deep in water. By now the paddle boarders were out in force, four of them paddling looked tiny in the distance. Their oars made it look as if they were sweeping the horizon. On the right side of the beach a class of Chi Kung began in silence, backs to the sun they held their bamboo sticks above their heads in honour of the ocean or the sky or peace or something else.

I know I am lucky to live here. We worked hard to make it work for us here. I am sharing this morning in the hope that I can share the calm, maybe to remind us of the beauty of swimming too. As with all my stories my hope is to revisit peace in our lives. David Kirkby says the art of holding on to moments of calm and sharing it with others is one of the arts of living. Thank you, David, for reminding me and encouraging me to write on. I am happiest when I am writing regularly but writing itself can be a lonely experience too so connecting with others, writers and readers alike here on Substack, is heartwarming.

I used to think I lived in a hot country. For three decades summers have been hot and sweaty but this summer is different. Now I think I live in a hot country! For nearly four weeks, without a day’s break, we have been at 30 degrees by 9am. Thirty degrees used to be a sign we were in a heatwave but now it appears to be the norm. The most important ingredient to my coffee this summer is ice and the best time to swim in the sea, is not 9am but 7.30am.

A beautiful summer sky in my mind isn’t blue anymore, gorgeous though it is, but like Susie Mawhinney it’s to see a smokeless sky and my favourite summer sound isn’t the ocean, but silence - meaning the lack of a police helicopter or a waterplane whirring above. The sound of cicadas, which I associated for decades with summer sparkle and levity and spontaneity and fun just reminds me of how hot it is.

Like a party-pooper I am loathe to admit that I am looking forward to the end of summer, and a return to a ‘normal level’ of wildfire risk. This summer will be tough they said in the spring of this year as they recognised a Super El Niño was getting started. (I just learned that the meteorological phenomenon was first named in Spanish by Peruvian fishermen in the 1600’s when they noticed a periodic warming of the sea and a scarcity of fish. They named it El Niño meaning ‘The Child’ (or boy) (although they referred to it as ‘the little boy of Christmas’ because it happened in December)).

El Niño is truly acting like a juvenile delinquent this summer, an arsonist creating havoc, destroying homes and charring lives. It breaks my heart that so many people are having to run from flames. Yesterday’s fire that started in central Spain was travelling at 60 meters a minute. I know! That’s what I thought, that’s a meter a second. No way!

These last evenings the sun looks different to me as it dips below the hills. It looks wasted as it smoulders oversized in pale orange in a singed sky. Even the clouds look tired.

We went for a stroll with the dog the other day and as we exited the wide farm track, widened in the spring for emergency vehicle access to the woodland, we were handed two leaflets about what we should do to avoid being burnt to the ground. Sobering stuff. It makes you wonder how long your luck will last. Like Susie, the mildest smell of smoke puts me on immediate alert.

And amid that fear we do the only thing we can do, which is learn different ways of living, without making the planet even hotter, as much as we can. Adapting however we can to excess heat. Like swimming in the sea before 8am! Like falling in love with autumn but on a whole new level!

With the ten euro note I found in the bottom of my beach bag, we stopped for a coffee in the beach bar before we left. I was surprised they were open. The old guy in the bar said he used to open at nine in the morning but now his clients are there two hours earlier.

It’s sink or swim. Adapt or smoulder. I am hoping if this is El Niño, or Super El Niño, that it is a cycle that does not repeat itself every year(!) but comes and goes and lets us get a breather of a calmer life in between.

Sorry that my words are disturbing. I am writing from the heart and calm it can be, but this summer is getting the better of me!

The best place for summer sparkle where I live right now is probably on the beach, at 7am

Redefining summer

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for joining me here. And from other writers, spreading the love on Substack, that strangely still doesn’t have a Nature Category…

…

Talking of

sea and beaches and life and loops, here’s David Kirkby…

How To Get There

And from deeper down, some magic from the sea by Rebecca Hooper

only light

And sarah writing from the inspirational Scottish seas

Awe

and more from the coast, from Michela Griffith celebrating light and colour. I love how she sees the details.

Nature Doesn’t Worry if Colours Clash