I remember going on holiday with my best pal Irene from primary school. Her mum and dad took us to a campsite in Burntisland (it was the 70’s). The four of us crammed into a tiny caravan, and for me, it was a big deal; I’d never spent a night away from my mum and dad nor had my family ever been away on holiday.
We all trekked to the nearby beach on one of those typical Scottish summer days; the kind where the sun declares itself just long enough to persuade parents it’s a good idea to have a picnic, then slopes off, leaving behind a bewildered darkening sky. Irene and I made the most of it though, wading determinedly into the Forth, up to our waists (but no further) teeth chattering, our purple arms and legs dotted with goosebumps. Irene’s lips had turned blue by the time she insisted, 'It’s fine once you’re in.'
It absolutely wasn’t.
Then it began to rain.
Undeterred, we stood around in the water; I wonder now if either of us could actually swim.
I remember a lot of laughter and splashing until a flicker of light glanced my peripheral vision followed by a low rumble. 'Should we get out?' I asked, wondering aloud if lightning could electrocute us if it hit the sea. As we debated the dubious science of this, the rain grew heavier until Irene’s mum (still on the beach) made the decision for us, bellowing above the rattling downpour for us to 'Get. Out. Now!'
We returned to the caravan to gently steam dry in its warmth. That was my first experience of wild swimming, though of course, back then, wild swimming wasn’t a thing, plus there was the aforementioned lack of actual swimming on our part.
I had another first on that trip too, a black pudding roll for breakfast, courtesy of Irene’s dad.
Absolutely delicious.