FALMOUTH: THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE SMELLY

Do you recognise this Falmouth:--

 

Golden sand, turquoise water and panoramic views . . . Falmouth Triathlon is a treat for all senses.  Enjoy the calm waters of Cornwall’s swimming hotspot, the blue flag-rated Gyllyngvase Beach.

 

Well, you might have been hugely disappointed if you’d been a Falmouth Triathlon 2024 competitor arriving in the town in the days ahead of yesterday’s big event.

 

On Friday, in particular, the event’s promotional blurb didn’t exactly match the reality.

 

As per my blog post below, daughter Lisa and I, swimmers in waiting, were primarily concerned with the big waves crashing onto Gylly. The sea was anything but “calm.”

 

But it was only when we had taken the plunge and were well and truly into it that we became acutely aware of the colour of that sea. 

 

Turquoise it not-so-plainly wasn’t.  We rapidly concluded that it was to do with rather  more than churned-up brown seaweed. 

 

And any remaining doubts were swept away by the all-pervading stink, both in the water and right across the beach (the sand of which, at best, is not exactly “golden,” is it?).

 

Things were pretty bad again on Saturday, I gather, at both Gylly and Swanpool, with confirmation coming from Surfers Against Sewage, who yesterday listed these two and Maenporth among Cornish beaches that had been “awash with sewage after lashings of heavy rain” (as CornwallLive put it).

 

So it seems the age-old stinker of a problem just won’t go away – providing, alas,  the wrong kind of “treat for the senses.” 

A SWELL WAY TO BE REMINDED OF MY AGE!

There was a heavy swell at Falmouth’s Gyllyngvase Beach yesterday morning and a goodly number of swimmers were standing at the water’s edge, wondering whether to commit.

It would be fine once you were through the breaking waves, some of which were head height, but that was the challenge – getting in and then, possibly even more hazardous, the getting out again. 

 

It was all about timing – anticipating the big ‘uns and the gaps between them.

 

Age had something to do with it, too, as I discovered in a cute little bit of chat with daughter Lisa, while we were still in the dry on the beach.

 

As we ummed and aahed about doing it, I said something like: “Even though you’re now 42, there’s still a paternal protective instinct in me; I’d feel responsible for you.”

 

To which, slightly hesitantly, she replied: “Well . . . yes, and I’m feeling that way about you, too.  Not being unkind, but at your age I’m worried you might not keep your balance so well in these waves!”

 

Touché, I guess. 

 

Anyway, we did go in – of course – and, aided by a running commentary from Lisa, this 74-year-old, minus his spectacles, did live to write this blog!   

PEOPLE-WATCHER’S PARADISE

A few minutes before eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, and if you thought it would still be all quiet on Gyllyngvase, Falmouth’s main beach, you’d better think again! 

 

It’s already full of interest and activity in all directions.

 

This daily dawn dip business is about so much more than the mere swimming but, lush though that was again this morning.

 

The trick is to take all the time in the world with the before and after – especially the after, just switching off for a while, in no rush to get changed and leave, instead   indulging in a spell of people-watching all around you.

 

For starters, there are already two well-subscribed keep-fit classes under way, with stretches and jerks and press-ups and back-and-forth runs and everyone, even the notably over-weight participants, giving it their sweaty all. 

 

Closer to self, the swimmers arrive and depart, and the age range is big.

 

There are the “wrinklies” (oops, that’s me, too, these days – keep forgetting that) and the enviably lithe and muscular young ‘uns. 

 

Half a dozen of the latter – perhaps part of a visiting rugby team? – charge into the sea. And, just a little surprisingly, come out of it again in double-quick time! 

 

Ditto the young lady in the skimpy bikini who, I reckon, must have lasted all of 30 seconds fully immersed before shooting back out – while her partner, well out of his depth, looked on in barely contained glee.

 

Apart from these quick departures, I count up to 20 “regulars” in the sea at any one time during my Gylly stay.

 

Observers include the little infant – can’t be much more than a year old – who looks on from just above the water’s edge, with his protective mum right behind him.

 

All around there is much laughter and chatter – and barking as any number of dogs and their owners have their own daily beach outing.

 

One young man, alas, comes out of the sea clutching his head, complaining that it’s aching and he thinks he may have dived too deep.

 

Then, fully clothed once more and with my bag packed, tiz time for me to head back home. Cue hot shower and coffee, bickies and Sunday papers. (That’s right, for as long as they’re still printing, I will always prefer them to the screen variety!)

 

As I leave Gylly, I look back and hope matey with the headache will be okay – he’s busy now consulting a little group of fellow swimmers.

 

And I’m also feeling sorry for the elderly lady, still in her dry robe, who has been standing like a statue in the middle of the beach for at least the last 20 minutes.

 

I’m thinking that maybe she’s been “stood up” by a fellow swimmer – or perhaps she, too, has simply been people-watching . . .