The Barley Mow

The bridge at Clifton Hampden from the point of entry

This is Jerome K. Jerome Three Men in a Boat territory, described by the author in the following terms: "Round Clifton Hampden, itself a wonderfully pretty village, old-fashioned, peaceful, and dainty with flowers, the river scenery is rich and beautiful." Rich with what, I wondered, when I found out from a denizen of the local campsite that he hadn't seen anybody swim in this stretch for years, and that personally, he wouldn't dream of it. Why not? "Well, put it this way, it's the Thames, innit." He went on to explain that he had grown up drinking out of a cow trough, and that at 77 he was none the worse for it, so it wasn't as if he were squeamish. Having reassured myself that he had found better sources of drink in the interim, not least in the Barley Mow next door, I decided to take the plunge regardless. After all, water quality rates as 'B' in Daniel Start's Wild Swimming, and if it's printed in a book...

The Barley Mow, founded in 1352
and memorably "once-upon-a-timeyfied"

I swam upstream under the bridge till I turned a bend and ceded the river to some swans, without even so much as testing their territoriality. Am very shy of fraternising across the species divide while in water - one never looks at one's best when wet. Turned downstream and had a wonderfully long stretch to glide through as the sun leant its head on its elbows and gilded the water with a sleepy smile.

'Once-upon-a-timeyfied'? What a great words: "If you stay the night on land at Clifton, you cannot do better than put up at the "Barley Mow." It is, without exception, I should say, the quaintest, most old-world inn up the river… Its low-pitched gables and thatched roof and latticed windows give it quite a story-book appearance, while inside it is even still more once-upon-a-timeyfied." Jerome K. Jerome.

I was last in the Barley Mow a month ago today for the wake of a
friend, Martin Stevens, who died unexpectedly, aged 52. He is buried in Berinsfield, and has been much on my mind. Swimming, in being such a liminal activity (the split-screen focus, the [breathing] in water vs [breathing in] water divide, the land-lubber to water-whelp metamorphosis), invariably brings the boundary between life and death to mind. In doing so, it galvanises resolve to take the plunge. So here's to Martin, and a life well lived.