Winter Solstice letter. Nine swims over MMXXV

published in Eland newsletter, January 2026

Last New Year, I ripped up a book contract.  It was an intriguing sensation to free yourself from the otherwise desired embrace of a Publisher. As all hungry freelance writers know, you need to lie about your availability and accept multiple and contradictory commissions with enthusiasm. Editors do not want to employ writers who say No. 

So why did I do it?  Guilt about broken deadlines was not a primary concern. Deadlines are a vital aspect of newsprint journalism, but if you are writing a book they are mere fences to be jumped, as if you were an old hunter at a point to point.  But I did know we were going forward into one hell of a year at Eland (moving all 182 titles) into a new warehouse and a new distributor. I may also have talked about my next book too much, which can kill the joy of settling down in a dark corner for three months.  The story had already been told.  I was also enjoying the comparative success of The House Divided: Sunni, Shia and the Making of the Middle East and the invitations to book festivals.  

We flew overnight to the Jaipur Literary Festival on January 29th for five days of talking and listening (there are nine talks held everyday in each of the five adjacent tents) and five nights of partying. Then a fortnight pottering around the ruined palace of Bundi, immersing ourselves in the Chisti shrine at Ajmer, the sacred music festival at Fort Naggour and Jodhpur. Delhi is renowned for its polluted air, but we chanced upon three days of crisp blue skies, and like all its guests, felt at home in the Lutyens Bungalow with its highly productive vegetable garden and ice-cold plunge pool. It was only our sixth journey across South Asia, so we once again held back from visiting the Taj Mahal.

Tuesday 18th March

I explored Rough Cilicia with Don McCullin and Monica Fritz over Ramadan. We caught the summits of the Taurus mountains, outlined in snow, from the broken ruins of Isauria Vetus and the first pink buds of almond blossom were breaking out beside the temple of Zeus at Dio Ceasarea.  A warm morning exploring the great double walls of Corycus allowed for just one swim in the sea, towards Kizkalesi, the maiden’s tower.  The kind owner of a beach café gave me a pair of green nylon swimming shorts left over from the summer season. The last time I had walked these sands was thirty-five years ago, checking out ferry routes whilst researching a guidebook to Greek and Turkish Cyprus.  

Sunday 18th May

I have never behaved especially well on my birthday, so was delighted to be able to submerge this event beneath the glamour of Jack Fletcher and Kirstie Haig’s wedding in the Gargunnock Hills of Stirlingshire.  The May was out and we had rooms above a pub that made its own whisky.  The next door village was where my Scottish lowland ancestors once farmed as feurs, lease-holding small-holders. I celebrated too much. But this made the swim on Sunday morning, in the dark, upper waters of Loch Katrine a form of absolution.   

Sunday 25th May

Studland beach in Dorset, anchored by an ancient lurcher, who had no more gallop in her legs.  She guarded the towels and rugs. I swam and then read beside her. Rose walked the beach with an old friend and his three daughters, gamely trying to celebrate his own birthday whilst preparing a fitting funeral speech for his partner, who had left this world too soon for everyone but herself. 

15th June, Father’s Day

There is no greater delight than in sharing friends, though my plan to do this, but in an outwardly carefree and casual manner, grew exceptionally complex.  The crab first course, washed down with magnums of Grange Fizz, lasted until 3pm.  But the cross threads of conversation worked out well that day, and we celebrated with a dip in the Candover stream once the washing up was out of the way.  

Monday 23rd June 

Out with my brother James in our uncle’s old wooden rowing boat, skimming along the tidal waters of Newtown creek, our four oars dipping in time.  A well-timed swim across the narrow neck of the estuary, with just the faintest pull of the tide.  

July 4-13 

Ragusa at last, the maritime city-state that defied both Venice and the Ottoman Empire, with a constitution so delicately balanced that the Rector ruled for just a month.  We found the rocks overlooked by a bastion where the locals swim and watched young Croats practice water-polo.  Then a week sailing with Nick and exploring with Katya.  Half a dozen swims a day, including the fun of being trusted with a mooring line to be attached to the shore.

August 4-12   

A wedding without Christian priests, but led by one obedient to the old ways, in a field enclosed by woods, overlooked by the Burren hills. A daughter and her new partner asleep in the next door tent.   I travelled north to Donegal on an impromptu road trip to Ardara with my brother David and sister Dido.  We three shared a bedroom, chatting away into the night as if we were on a childhood camping holiday.  Swam out from Narin beach in wild weather, just making landfall at Inishkeen monastery island before the tide made things too difficult.  The next weekend, Rose and I walked the long beach at Rossbehy spit, where Dervla Murphy swam as a young woman on New Year’s Eve, alone with the moonlight and a hip flask of whisky.   The next day we swam off that beautiful bay below Daniel O’Connor’s house at Derrynane, County Kerry.  There was bunting up for the 200th birthday of the non-violent Liberator. 

Tuesday 2nd September

Other daughter came down to our Bothy cottage to decompress after six hectic weeks at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. This coincided with a friend who had just come back from the West Bank.  It has been the most perfect year for our fruit trees, but we made a break in harvesting and set off for a bicycle ride along the farm tracks, but got soaked by a chance shower.  The path to the pool we have dammed in the Candover stream had got so overgrown that we tried a different route through the old water meadow. As we got back on our bikes, we were more muddy than wet.

 “Dad, you know that decision that you made, not to talk about Brexit after your first glass of wine in the evening?”  I nodded.  “What about adding Palestine and Armenia to that list.”