Tag: swimming

Girona, Spain: Snorkelling on the Costa Brava

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8 July 2022

I woke in pitch darkness wondering why I felt so awake, until I realised it was 9am and the window shutters had completely blocked the daylight from our room. I suggested hiring a car for the day to go and see the mountains and national parks north and west of Girona – Les Guilleries and Parc Natural de la Zona Volcanica de la Garrotxa. After a couple of biscuits and a peach kindly provided by our AirBnb host, we headed through the warm streets of Old Town and across the river to find the car hire place.

The city west of the river is newer and less charming than the east, but the streets were clean and quiet. We walked between tall buildings and through the large plaza by the station in an unsuccessful search for a convenience shop selling sandwiches – it seems that Catalan businesses have quite sporadic opening hours, and there’s certainly no such thing as a meal deal. We grabbed paprika crisps from one shop, sun cream from another, and eventually found the car hire place in a strange, dead quiet residential area – all shuttered up.

Platja d’Aro Municipality

A little exasperated, we decided to head back to the station to catch a bus to the coast. We walked along clean, quiet main roads past a busy corner café (presumably full of car hire people) and a couple of telecoms engineers working on a pop-up table under a parasol, to the amusement of Ryan (the telecoms engineer.) At the large, air-conditioned bus station, a lovely English lady helped us find the right bus and we waited in the queue for the 11.45 departure to Platja d’Aro.

Rather than the low, long, slightly oppressive box full of people, handrails and stop buttons that I’m accustomed to as a not-very-regular participant in the English public transport system, the bus was what I’d consider a touring coach. It was comfortable and nobody paid attention to the face mask signs. The journey took us through quiet, dry towns with pale buildings and low-angled terracotta rooves and past flat, golden fields backed by distant mountains. It was interesting to see some of rural Catalonia, and we arrived in the large coastal town of Platja d’Aro after 40 minutes.

We checked the return times and walked through a large, palm-lined plaza towards the sea. This town felt more modern and touristy than Girona, with lots of beach apartments and an almost Miami-like vibe – to us, anyway. We turned off a street onto the beachfront, which was crammed with outdoor bars and restaurants looking out over pale sand and clear, blue water.  Platja Gran d’Aro beach was busy enough but far from crowded, and we walked for 20 minutes along the wide, paved promenade to the quiet northern stretch of sand.

Platja Rovira Beach

The path curved and narrowed into an open passage as we walked between a rock face and a low wall, which took us up some steps and through a tunnel. We emerged at the back of a sandy cove where interesting rock formations punctuated the sand a little way below us, including an upright pinnacle that begged to be climbed, and verdant shrubs spilled from the wall where the land dropped away. We carried on and the path arced around to the left revealing Platja Rovira, another small stretch of sand separated from the cove and main beach by rocks jutting into the sea. We liked the look of this beach, which was also busy but not rammed, so we wandered down to find a spot.

We set our towel (Ryan didn’t bring his) down at the far end below more high, vegetation-topped rocks, and buried our valuables ready to go in the sea. The “sand” was more like extremely fine, smooth, almost white gravel, which felt nice underfoot and was blissfully easy to brush off. We managed no more than a few minutes “relaxing” before grabbing our snorkels and trotting off to the sea, which shelved steeply and provided respite from the burning heat, which thankfully was tempered by a light breeze.

The water was clear, deep and incredibly blue. We swam over rocky worlds absolutely mesmerised by the unfamiliar fish – colourful purple-yellow-green wrasse, large, bottom-feeding mullet, some kind of piranha-shaped things with fine stripes and thick lips, snake-like red and black things, huge shoals of tiny shiny things and small bright orange things, all hovering around the anemone, urchin and grass-like weed covered rocks.

We snorkelled for half an hour, swam across to a floating pontoon for the sole and fully legitimate purpose of jumping off, and headed back to the beach for a second attempt at relaxing. That didn’t last long, and we ended up packing up and walking back to Platja Gran d’Aro in search of some lunch. We found a medium-sized supermarket on a street behind the beach and were bemused to find only four sandwiches in the whole shop. We left with a strange combination of snacks – a sandwich that was half omelette, half ham and cheese, some dubious looking ham and cheese toasties, paprika Lays, a couple of mojito beers, a litre of sangria and a quarter watermelon.

Platja Gran d’Aro Beach

We stopped to eat at a grassy, shady spot along the beachfront. The watermelon, sangria, crisps and ham and cheese sandwich were lovely, but the omelette sandwich was a serious undertaking – heavy, vinegarey and generally unpleasant. I’d expected Ryan to share the melon but he didn’t want any, so having decided to return to a different part of the beach, I waddled back to the north end of Gran Platja d’Aro feeling very full. We sat near the rocks at the end, buried our stuff in the gravelly sand and pulled on snorkels ready to go and find some more fish.

We spent another half hour mesmerised by the colours and shapes of the underwater world, where undulating rocks formed foundations for cities of fish, spiky black urchins, huge anemones and grassy weed. We braved taking my waterproof iPhone 12 Pro in the water and despite the immense difficulty of simultaneously clutching it with one hand, constantly rearranging our cheap snorkels, not kicking rocks and staying afloat, we got some great footage (in amongst the mass of blurry, noisy, shaky footage). We headed back to the sand about 7pm on deciding that in our attempt to take videos, we’d swallowed way too much seawater.

We buried my legs in the sand for no good reason, drank sangria and messed around on the rocks, then set off back to the bus station along the still buzzing promenade. We caught the 8.30pm bus back to Girona and enjoyed the sunset over the distant hazy blue mountains, golden fields and quiet towns.

Back in Girona

We went straight from the bus station to our apartment, dumped our bags and quickly changed before heading out for dinner. We walked through the narrow streets of Old Town, which were lit warmly and colourfully by the various restaurants and shops, to the Konig restaurant by the tall, beautifully lit Basilica. We sat outside in kind of a courtyard by the open, carless street and were once again amazed by the lateness of life in Catalonia – we didn’t start eating until 11pm but the restaurant was busy with people, including young children. Feeling still full of melon and salt water, I had a prawn, egg and avocado salad with bread and Ryan had a lovely risotto with prawn and scallop skewers and grilled courgette. Satisfied, knackered and still salty, we headed straight back to our room and dropped off to sleep.

Two Wet Climbers

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Great days usually have three things in common: a remote location, a risk of death and a pub finish. Exhibit A – last Saturday…55576787_766649270376210_9170423551180668928_n

We got to West Lulworth earlyish and lugged our gear to Stair Hole, a small cove just round the corner from the more well-known Lulworth Cove. It’s a stunning place, with a secluded beach surrounded by zebra cliffs and could-be-caribbean turquoise water.

We dumped bags on the stony beach and waded across the knee-high water to the big lump of very climbable-looking rock. We scrambled up to the top like kids in a playground, searching unsuccessfully for a route before setting up an anchor and making one up.

Bored of messing around, we scrambled back to sea level. I went an awkward way and had to backtrack, but not before watching a handful of melon-sized rocks tumble past where I’d been standing just a few moments before. A sobering reality check.

We kitted up and committed to The Maypole, a circular trad traverse which should have been a doable HVS 5b. I enjoyed leading the second, third and fourth pitches; the gradient was mostly okay, there were some decent holds and it was super grippy, although it was weird rock – sharp and “horny”, with very few cracks for jamming or placing gear.

The route can be done as a deep water solo, which I would love on a warmer, sunnier day as it would mean less faffing and more climbing. I enjoyed traversing but I was aware of the need to place loads of gear so we wouldn’t swing too much if we fell. I’m glad we didn’t fall as I didn’t place much.

At belay point five (after a quick backtrack to retrieve a stuck nut) we looked at the next section and commented on how straightforward it looked. As if I’d never learnt that lesson before. I lowered down towards the water from the bolted belay, suddenly realising how much the rock leaned over me and how few foot placements there were.

There were two potential ways to get through the cave: up the only crack in the rock or practically touching the water along the coming-out-at-you slab. I tried both and learnt a formula: awkward belay angle + lack of placement + pumped forearms – elevation above water = wet climber. I could feel my partner laughing at me as I flapped about, searching for purchase on the rock and whinging about wet socks.

Then it was his turn, which was pretty much a carbon copy of mine. Being the safer climber and all-round better person, he decided it was his job to get us out. He employed the unconventional method of lassoing a horn of rock past the nasty coming-out-at-you slab, which – when I suggested tying a nut to the sling for a bit of weight (not just a pretty face) – actually worked.

By this time he was out of sight round the corner, so I just responded to his muffled grunts of “slack” and “take”. Eventually he decided that the only way back involved swimming, so I fed him the rope and hoped his drowning noises were for dramatic effect. Fortunately he made it to the beach, and I later found out that he was nearly pulled down by the weight of his jacket and harness.56177033_395067664380598_8633818574965702656_n

Knowing you’re going to get wet and cold when you really don’t want to is horrible. I climbed down as much as I could, struggling to remove the nuts, and resigned myself to the water after fumbling around trying to put my phone in my helmet so it could float safely back to shore. Which didn’t work, as I got tired holding onto the rock and dropped (luckily) my helmet.

Going in was terrible. I was desperate to not ruin my phone and lose all my pictures, so I’d stuffed it as high up in the front of my top as I could manage. I tried staying on my back and failed – I probably looked like I was drowning. The weight of my down jacket and a harness full of metal really dragged me down, and the “swim” back was unpleasant – although I managed to collect my floating helmet.

Back on the shore my partner was shaking and I was distraught at the fact we’d left a load of gear in the wall. Being poor and stingy, I insisted on swimming back to get it; again, mega unpleasant, but well worth it for the sake of a handful of nuts, slings and draws. Meanwhile, onlookers enjoyed the show – not one person seemed concerned!

Wet, cold, hungry and in dire need of hydration (by tea and cider), we shivered back to the van. But it could have been worse – we could have lost a lot of stuff, or died. Just like all other great days, this one finished happily ever after… in the pub.

I can’t wait to climb again.

Ultra Training Update: Week 4.5

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Anyone who read Too Much Too Soon will know that I was (predictably) too enthusiastic about having signed up to an ultramarathon as I managed to injure myself within a week. Having seen the lovely Hampshire rugby physiotherapist, I have suspected tib post tendinopathy. I won’t bore you with the details but it kind of falls under the umbrella term shin splints. This means that, since week 1 of training, I haven’t been running – not the best start.

 

Unfortunately I’m the most impatient, gung-ho person on Earth so this has been mega frustrating. However, it has encouraged me to diversify my training. I’m still yet to develop a consistent exercise programme as I’m more of a “wing it” person than a person capable of sticking to rules and schedules, but (like my uni work) I know this is something I should really do.

 

It turns out there’s more to cardio than running. In the gym I’ve spent a lot more time on the cross trainer, ventured onto the exercise bike and dabbled with the rowing machine, as well as trying to maintain my weights routine. The cross trainer was particularly good as I managed to get some uni reading done and watch a few things on iplayer, but I had to limit my time on it after it started to make my shin ache. Cycling also got my heart rate up and rowing is surprisingly tiring but, like anything, seems to get easier once you’ve pushed through the initial tough 15 minutes or so.

 

I also dipped my toes into the pool, as you may have read in Swimming Rediscovered. I’ve only gone three times, for which I blame my pain-in-the-backside knot-forming, slow-drying hair (a rubbish excuse I know) but each time I’ve done at least a mile and it’s felt really good. I also swam in the river at Shawford (very cold) and the quay at Bosham (almost balmy), which were both invigorating experiences that I’d only recommend if you’re okay with unseen things touching your feet.

 

Over the early May bank holiday a miracle happened: the sun got lost and ended up in England. I dug my beloved and too-long-neglected Specialized Rockhopper out the shed and treated it to a beautiful ride in the New Forest. I’ve always considered myself a through-and-through mountain biker, but this 20-ish mile route around the North West of the Forest showed me the light of road cycling (but that’ll be another post).

 

Two days later I cycled the short (16 mile round) distance from Winchester to Alresford and back and was reminded of the simple formula that prevented me ever achieving regular cyclist status: saddle + bottom = ouch.

 

Between these bike days I braved the sunny Sunday traffic down towards West Wittering beach – big mistake. Over an hour’s worth of traffic later we launched the kayak at West Itchenor and spent a glorious afternoon paddling 6-ish miles around the creeks – the good, steady workout which inspired On Kayaking.

 

I went to rugby training last week to try a gentle jog on grass, and I was delighted that it felt okay – barely a twinge. I plan to start running again this week, and this time I really do intend to take it uncharacteristically gently and slowly.

 

All in all, I’m equal parts furious and exasperated at myself for causing this first hurdle, but also a little bit pleased to have had so much fun with other forms of exercise. I’ll definitely be incorporating cross trainers, rowing machines, bikes, kayaks, pools, rivers, seas and anything else I can get my hands on into my cardio regime, and fingers crossed I’ll be running around like a clueless, grinning idiot again soon.

 

Swimming Rediscovered

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I’m probably the most impatient and restless injured person on the planet, and unfortunately suspected “tib post tendinopathy” has sentenced me to an unknown period of no running. Desperate to keep my fitness up, this week I’ve been cross training, rowing, cycling and – for the first time in way too long – swimming.

 

I used to be a really ungainly swimmer. I learnt quite quickly but messed around in swimming lessons and was never interested in technique. After getting a part-time job as a lifeguard in 2011 I decided to get better, so I slipped (literally) into the pool a few times and worked on my stroke, kick and breathing. Hours of lifeguarding swimming lessons and being forced to watch people swim (the most monotonous job you could imagine) probably helped, and now I’m marginally less ungainly.

 

I haven’t been for ages and have some poor excuses. My hair is really long and I’m certain there are little pool-demons that tie it in the most inextricable knots. I know the lifeguards so I’ll end up chatting and/or being made fun of. Pool water is really disgusting – full of people’s body oils, skin cells, wee, hair and dissolved farts (by far the truest and most legitimate excuse).

 

Excuses aside, I turned up at the pool on Thursday intending to do a mile (64 lengths) and expecting to struggle with fitness and boredom. Stretching my arms and legs out in a relaxed front crawl felt great for about 10 lengths, until I felt unfit and bored. Then I found myself secretly racing the fastest person in the fast lane, a 50-something year old swimmer with a super-efficient looking technique.

 

Safe to say he was out of my league, so I got tired, frustrated and splashy. I rested and chose to stick to the slightly slower pace set by “swim hat lady” as I had no idea how quick I should go. She helped me a lot, and I started to settle into a (slightly messy) rhythm.

 

Two things slowed my progress, both involving my cheap H&M bikini bottoms: my waist-length hair kept tangling in the tie-strings, and I didn’t trust them to hold fast as I kicked off from the wall. It would  be no fun for anyone, least of all me, if they decided to go whereabouts. Tip: buy actual swimwear designed for actual swimming.

 

As the pool became less busy, I focused less on whether I was getting in anyone’s way and more on my technique. I’ve always breathed on every fourth stroke, always on my right side. I have a bad habit of holding my breath rather than blowing bubbles under water. I decided to try breathing every third stroke as I’d heard something about muscles developing/tightening non-symmetrically if you only breathe on one side. It felt unnatural and awkward but more doable than I expected, and my stroke became a bit smoother the more I lumbered through the water. Breathing this way actually felt more natural after a while, so perhaps every fourth stroke had  always been too long.

 

I finally felt I had settled into a good rhythm at about length 55, despite getting foot cramp and swimming a couple of half lengths looking as if I’d been shot. I felt so good after a mile that I decided to bump it up to 100 lengths (I’m a bit obsessive about round numbers) and oddly enough it only got easier as I relaxed more, despite calf cramp kicking in at length 87.

 

Every time I lost count I rounded down, so I ended up doing 106 lengths (2.65km) according to my borrowed Swimtag band. I felt so good that I’d have kept going if the pool didn’t close. I just couldn’t believe that a) it took 50-60 lengths to settle into a comfortable rhythm, b) after 64 lengths I felt less tired than after 10, and c) changing my breathing stroke helped so much. Okay it took about an hour, but I did keep pausing to de-mist goggles, untangle hair and have a drink.

 

I know this is probably a really boring post but I wanted to document my return to swimming. Despite the arduous fight to detangle my hair in the shower I really enjoyed it; there’s something so therapeutic and solitary about being in the water, particularly once you push past the initial “wall” and settle into a rhythm. I recommend giving it a go. I’m glad to have rediscovered a low impact, non-self-destructive way to keep fit, and I think I’ll invest in more suitable swimwear and (maybe) a swim hat. Even though my heart is in the lakes, rivers and seas, sometimes the pool just has to do.