I could never really manage the meditation-thing. Couldn't empty my head. It's like King's Cross station in there, thoughts milling around, criss-crossing with each other, jostling about. Even if a space opened up, it would be filled again immediately.
But swimming is different. Not everywhere, just a few places. Here I can swim early or late, when I have the pool to myself. After a few lengths I can find a rhythm, and enjoy the sensation of water rippling across skin, of limbs stretching, joints easing open after the crush of desk and train.
My mind begins to clear, and all I do is swim and look, swim and look. Arms and shoulders, hips and legs, the slow cool glide. At one end is oak and slate, at the other end horse and sky. Up and down, up and down, oak and horse, slate and sky.
This is where I find my calm, this countryside that feels like a home - although I have never lived here. I can write here, I can always write here.
