The public footpath laid barely 20 meters from where I stood,promising a walk along the river,passing fields and through woodland,well away from any road. Yet there was something in my way—the River Thames.
I checked my map to see how to reach the path,but there was no other footpath that would lead me to the island on which it sat.It was only accessible by boat.
It was this path that came to mind when,a few weeks later,I decided to try cross—country swimming, which combines water and walking.
As I got into the river,its coolness welcome on the warm August day,the weight of my supplies dissipated.My back was fee,and I simply puled everything Ineeded in a bag behind me, feeling almost weightless.I relaxed into the water,my hair flowing around my face as I slowly floated alongside dragonflies, a moorhen and her chicks—none of which seemed to even acknowledge my presence.
The whole experience went by all too quickly and in no time Iwas drying off and walking back to the station.Though cross—country swimming was invented to provide a challenge,I believed it had given me something much more important—the confidence to try it by myself.
So I decided to return to my inaccessible island,the footpath by the Thames.I got into the waterway and swam,exploring the island's banks for a while.After five minutes of searching,the island let me in:I found my entrance point alongside a tree and pulled myself out.
Though the Thames loop wasn't that long a walk,and the swim was not too big a challenge,it represented more than that. It gave me the chance to pioneer a new route never open to me before, the opportunity to reach a picnic spot that otherwise would have been off—limits and,when it came to that footpath,the ability to access the previously inaccessible.