Swimming at Chapman's Pool, Dorset

The English climate is the Bipolar Disorder of all climates - up and down, always at the extreme end with nothing in the middle, and prone to sudden change.  

Weeks of Satanic weather cleared on Sunday and it's been Caribbean weather since: Tuesday 24th July was the hottest day of the year, peaking at 31c, with flawless blue skies. 

Villagers here complained it was too hot, the tarmac was melting, they couldn't sleep or even think straight.  They forgot that 5 days ago, they were complaining it had rained for 40 days and 40 nights, their streets were flooded, mildew was forming between their ears and that they were ready to sell up and move to Ethiopia.  Now they're praying for rain again.  I don't think there is pleasing some people. 

I live in a rural North Buckinghamshire village and I don't suppose they're accustomed to high fashion.   I recently purchased this adorable set of designer flip-flops, for just £2,750.  A mere snip for such uber-chic footwear.  No doubt me being seen wearing these has put some locals' noses out of joint.

Apparently, fashionistas in New York and Milan are raving about these flipflops, all the catwalk models are seen in them.

In order to make the most of the weather, I rose at the crack of dawn and my butler, Juan, gave my green Jaguar XKE a fine-tune, ready for a day's drive to the coast; not to the kiss-me-quick, 'all-you-can-eat' and candyfloss tatt of Southend or brash Brighton but the peaceful beauty of the Dorset coastline. 

Wearing a peacock-patterned Hermes scarf around my head, and driving with the roof down, it took just three hours to reach Chapman's Pool, a small, isolated cove of fine shingle, to the west of Worth Matravers.

The magnificent cliffs, grazed by sheep and divided by thick hedges and scored with fox-ridden lanes, are rich in fossils and I believe the Jurassic Coast runs through here.  It's not easy to get to, but is very quiet, with not a single hotel, town or building anywhere close - that's the untouched quality of the Dorset coastline.  

I change into my peppermint-coloured, diamond-studded bathing costume and make my way down to the beach, my fish flip-flops attracting some admiring glances.  I spent the rest of the afternoon swimming in the English Channel.

The sea, here more of a lagoon, is perfectly still, and pale blue like old people's eyes.   

Tourists visiting London for the Olympics and reading this should make the effort to leave the capital and visit the Dorset coast.  It's a world away from the England that the metropolis represents, like comparing chalk with cheese.  When the sun is shining, its rare beauty rivals many more exotic countries that I've had the opportunity to visit. 

The perfect climate - Britain

I strongly recommend tourists planning to visit Great Britain to bring this device along.  It's an old-fashioned, 3-minute sand timer, usually sold for a couple of dollars, occasionally used for boiling eggs.

Culinary aspirations aside, on a visit to the British Isles, it's an absolutely essential item to include in your luggage because it precisely measures the length of the British summertime.  Yes, that's right, the sun really does shine for just 3 minutes annually in the British Isles.   

Having grown up in balmy Southern Texas, we used to - like many countries - enjoy summer by visiting the beach, such as in the following picture of Fanny about to go surfing (naked) in the Gulf of Mexico:

But in Britian, visiting the beach is simply not possible due to the acute shortness of the summer.  The 3-minute Summer Solstice is therefore not traditionally celebrated on a Cornish beach or watching a Punch 'n' Judy show on the Yorkshire coast, but by the curious sport of bog-snorkelling.

Bog-snorkellers don snorkels, flippers and wetsuits, making them look like ridiculous, shiney, overgrown sea-lions, and jump unashamedly and unmedicated into the deep, flooded peat bogs north of the remote Welsh town of Llanwrtyd Wells, swimming back and forth, as frozen as a marrow, in the 55-metre long trench, its waters as brown and dreggy as onion soup.  

It seems a very bizarre habit to me, more of a fetish really.  Maybe I'm a little reserved.   As an American living in England, it's going to be a very difficult adjustment process getting used to the filthy delights of a watery ditch in Wales, but you cannot argue their exquisite taste.  Then again, if you don't like bog-snorkelling the other summer-time outdoor options practised by the British (particularly the Welsh) are binge-drinking, punch-ups and booze-fuelled violence.

He forced his jumbo jet into my hangar

I've been in a continual black mood due to weeks of apocalyptic weather; my all-over tan has faded suddenly from Hawaiian Sunset to the unflattering pallor of a shelled, boiled egg, something I find intolerable.

Growing up in the aridness of Southern Texas, I am not at all accustomed to this dankness.  It seems that light is literally at the end of the tunnel, as meteorologists claim sunny weather begins in the next few days.   Given the vagaries of the English climate, I am planning to buy a third home in the gorgeous country of Portugal - I'll post more on that subject soon.

In the meantime, stuck indoors with rain hammering against the French doors and the fire lit at 10 in the morning, I've been reading classical porn from my library, although I should make the point that this is not trashy porn or chic-lit, which I find insulting to my intelligence, but soft-core porn from the Golden Era.  I'll not bore you with too many details, only to say how wonderfully evocative I found the following expression:

"He forced his jumbo jet into my hangar"

 It does conjure a wonderful mental image, doesn't it?