A sea view is terrific to have in a home, writes Property Editor ORNA MULCAHY, but getting beneath the waves is a chilling prospect
THE SEA, the sea. Property writers are always having their attention drawn to it. “Look,” the estate agent says, “there’s a lovely view if you stand on your tippy toes here in the attic bedroom . . . see there between the houses? That’s Bray Head.”
Any closer to the water and the prose goes into overdrive. Instead of visiting a house, you might be invited to view a “once-in-a- lifetime opportunity on an exceedingly rare slice of the foreshore”. That might mean a property that is by the sea, rather than three streets away, with a view from the landing loo.
The correct response on being shown a shore-side home is wonder and amazement that such heaven on Earth exists, followed by speculation that it must be worth a fortune, since, as the saying goes in property, no one can build in front of you. Yes, the sea is a great boost to values. It’s an asset to be admired and written up, but certainly not one to actually go into in the real sense of the word.
No, your property writer is more at home indoors, admiring the waves through plate-glass windows while also taking notes on the Brazilian plank flooring or the Syrian-marble-tiled bathroom with its fabulous fluffy towels.
Don’t bother with a fluffy towel, was the advice from the editor for this assignment. “It’ll only make you conspicuous.”
Wrenched from the cocoon of beautiful homes that is my normal beat, I’ve been sent to swim in the Irish sea as an antidote to luxury, and possibly to toughen me up for the hard months to come when it might be less “how deep is your carpet?”, than “how deep is your debt?”.
Austerity beckons. It’s all about simple pleasures now. Sea swimming is your only man. Boosts circulation, lends a feelgood factor, puts a spring in your step, and . . . cuts down on laundry bills? That’s according to a conversation overheard down at the Forty Foot as I tried to blend in with the 9am swimmers. I wasn’t eavesdropping, but voices do carry down there. A man was explaining how he had worn the same socks for seven days and they didn’t smell, thanks to the fact he was putting his ozone-dipped feet in them day after day. Sea water, someone else added, is a natural astringent – an antiseptic and odour eater aside from all its other benefits, such as body sculpting. The figures you see down on the rocks: trim size-10 women who look 50 but could be 80, and men in wetsuits who appear carved from basalt.
Although well out of my comfort zone, I’m on for the job, buoyed by a recent study in Japan showing that short bursts of exercise can be just as good for the heart and body as lengthy exercise sessions. The short, sharp shock is the new long-distance run, and swimming is a particularly good option. Also, the short sea swim is free, unlike the cold-water treatment I was recently offered in an Italian spa to tackle cellulite – €100 to be plunged in cold water and walk up and down over pebbles.
And so to one of the Forty Foot changing rooms – basically an exposed bench of cement painted white, with a hook on the wall on which to hang the raincoat. Not a shower in sight. People nip down, strip off, swim out and back, and get dressed again, and off they go. It looks very uncomfortable. A quick chat with year-round swimmer Michael Johnston warns there’s a bit of a pull out there, and lots of jelly fish. He says the water is as warm as it’s likely to get – around 15 degrees.
Enough with the delaying tactics. It’s time to disrobe, and head down to the steps. Surely some improvements are needed here. Such uneven steps, but good grip, I’ll give them that. How those Italian women would envy me now, with freezing cold water pulling against my thighs. If I stood here every morning doing this I could be sculpted into goddess proportions in no time, but feck it’s cold.
There is no option but to plunge in. The cold is staggering. I have to pretend to be used to it. I am determined to swim at least 20 strokes out and then bask, but it seems that the thing to do is swim out and float, as though this were the Mediterranean in 26 degrees. I try, but what’s that flurry below the surface – is it a jellyfish, a bit of seaweed, or worse? An in-law was once bitten by a seal around here. This is horrible. The wind keeps blowing gusts of brine on to my face. The blow-dry will be ruined. I can’t believe the trio of elderly men who look as though they are striking out for Howth, saying “Beautiful, isn’t it?” as they pass. It’s not beautiful. It’s brutal.
Even getting out is a palaver. A tall gent rises out of the water in front of me, starkers. Someone I vaguely recognise is doing physical jerks over to the right, also starkers. Head down, I haul myself out. The rail is covered in slimy seaweed. Ugh. I collapse on the cement bench and, Proust like, the smell and feel of childhood hits me, wet stone and wet togs and hard towel. It feels wonderful all of a sudden. I could nearly get in again.
Series concluded
