It’s about 6.30pm and I’ve ventured in for my final swim in the Med before returning home from a 5-day break in Puerto Pollensa, Mallorca. The sea temperature is about 16 degrees – positively tropical by British standards! – but it’s still a bit of a shock to the system for one acclimatised to swimming in indoor pools. I tell myself that I am quicker getting in this time than 4 days ago but that may well be wishful thinking on my part. There is only one other swimmer in the sea and we smile briefly at each other in passing. I’m calling this my final acclimatisation dip, as I’ve already been for a more structured, training swim this morning. Really, though, I cannot resist the lure of the ocean just one more time before returning home. The wind has finally subsided and the late sun bouncing off the lazy ripples makes the surface of the sea look like molten silver. An idyllic spot, the bay is encircled by mountains which stand out in sharp relief against the blue, blue sky, speckled with just a few wispy white clouds. I lie back and float for a minute or two, savouring the salt water supporting my limbs and the tinkling sound of the gentle swell rippling around me. It is utterly magical.

I’m feeling confident that progress has been made as I have been pretty diligent in my swimming endeavours over the past few weeks. In the pool I have gradually built up my distances and am now up to 50 x 25m lengths – 1.25km. This is a greater achievement than the mere numbers indicate. Too fast for the slow lane but too slow for the medium lane, I find myself zig-zagging in and out of the hordes of early morning attendees of a certain age. They have all presumably paid to swim yet actually spend the majority of their time congregating, in droves, at either end of the pool for a good old chinwag. I find this inexplicable. If all you want is to gather for a chat, why not go to a café?! In addition, my front crawl is inelegant, inefficient and sometimes non-existent. I try to establish a rhythm early on, rolling rather than lifting my head and focussing on chanting “in … and out … and in… and out” to myself, to regularise my breathing. I am often thwarted, however, by those who are so busy gassing they step – yes, step – backwards directly into my path. I haven’t yet inhaled half the pool but it’s been a close call on more than one occasion. Mind you, my late mother would have been firmly on the side of the social gang. A regular, though never enthusiastic, swimmer when I was a child she lacked confidence in the water, displaying little sympathy for those who, in her immortal words, ‘plough up and down’ – a phrase invariably uttered with withering disdain.

Upon arrival in Mallorca, I am determined to get into the sea at the first opportunity. Unfortunately, the weather has not got the memo. Breezy, cloudy and distinctly chilly – nooooo! Where is the sun?? The sea is an uninviting, sullen grey and the kite surfers are out in force. Even fully-dressed I am shivering. I can’t conceive of immersing my scantily clad torso in the sea today, so I resolve to get up early tomorrow morning and make a start on my acclimatisation. Only to discover the wind is even stronger at 7am! Well, it has to be done … so I steel myself and go for it. Even if I can only stay in for a few minutes, it will be a start. Walking down the sandy beach, I reflect that this time last year I would have really struggled to cope with my feet slipping in the shifting surface. But my lovely new knees are getting stronger by the day and cope with this, admittedly slight, challenge with ease. My first step into the lapping waves is somewhat less enjoyable. Brrrrr! I advance with grim determination and emit a strangled ‘haaaaa …!’ as I get deeper. My husband kindly captures the moment on his mobile phone and, on inspecting the footage later, I see that my shoulders are tensing involuntarily with every step. Nevertheless, I also discover that the entire process of immersion takes only one minute and 8 seconds – the wonders of technology!

In Baldrick-esque fashion I have already formulated a cunning plan to gauge the approximate distance I am swimming with the aid of Googlemaps (other mapping tools are available). I will start at my hotel and, following the serried ranks of sunbeds and thatched beach parasols, eye up which of the many and varied alternative hostelries I have reached at the point that I turn round and swim back. On day one I stay in for about 20 minutes and calculate I have swum a grand total of 320 metres! By day four, however, I calculate I have swum 500 metres in each direction. I reckon it has taken me about 45 minutes to swim approximately 1km – but my husband thinks it’s closer to an hour! I hate to admit it but he’s probably right.

Although I’ve persevered and finally managed to overcome the cold-water-shock reaction sufficiently to immerse my face in the water a few times, I’ve mostly been doing a slow and jerky, head-above-water breaststroke. This is not my preferred stroke. I never feel I’m making any progress with it, even though my front crawl’s nothing to write home about either. There’s an Ironman Triathlon this weekend and I’ve been admiring, somewhat enviously, the progress of the half dozen or so accomplished swimmers who speed across the bay and back every morning with apparent ease. The fluid power and ease of their front crawl is something I can only dream of. I have my first ever swimming lesson booked on my return to Blighty though, so I’m looking forward to receiving guidance on making some improvements.

We have an early flight home and arrive at the airport in good time. Having made it through security with little fanfare, other than my knees setting off the alarms – an occupational hazard from now on! – we go in search of sustenance. My ham and cheese roll seems to have a rather unpleasant tang, but I assume the air-dried ham is too strong for my palate and gift it to my husband. The coffee also tastes strange, but I attribute this to a lingering after-taste of the ham. On board the aircraft, I vaguely note that my ears haven’t popped at all following take-off whereas they did multiple times on the outward flight. About an hour in, I suddenly become chilled to the core. My arms come up in goosebumps and I’m shivering. What the …? My husband obligingly digs my trusty, after-swimming jumper out of my hand luggage. Whilst he does so I notice several other passengers in crop tops who clearly don’t think it’s cold in here. By the time we land, I have a splitting headache and I’m nauseous. The coughing starts en-route to baggage reclaim. Oh great, a chest infection. I feel so ill whilst driving home it’s clear I won’t be able to make the open water session tomorrow. I am so disappointed to miss it and the opportunity to meet my fellow This Girl Can participants. But I simply don’t have the energy to do anything other than fall into bed. On Sunday morning, cough and sore throat rampaging, I finally take a Lateral Flow Test. And it’s positive. I have Covid-19. An unwelcome souvenir of an otherwise lovely break in Mallorca. I just hope it doesn’t persist for too long.