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centre, reaching the porch of the Lechlade library just as it begins to rain. I shelter from the downpour; behind me is the spire of St Lawrence church and the paved path amid the gravestones named after Shelley. Eventually the rain stops, a rainbow appears in the sky over Thames Street and the pavements shimmer.
    â€˜It’s not a competition,’ advises Clive the local cab man as he drives me to Kelmscott and I tell him about my swim; ‘go with the flow, get your stroke right and get the right rhythm and you’ll be fine.’ I arrive at the seventeenth-century Plough Inn where I’m staying for two nights. A man at the bar says they get a lot of SwimTrek people in here and I ask if they are super-serious swimmers. ‘No!’ he laughs, as if this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard, ‘they only do fifty yards.’ I walk through Kelmscott and past the manor, the old summer home of the Pre-Raphaelite artist William Morris who called this part of the river ‘the Baby Thames’ and whose ‘Willow Boughs’ wallpaper was inspired by the trees surrounding Buscot Pool. There are doves in the air; the emerald fields shine in the sun. I head down a lane and see a sign for the Thames Path, a small landing stage and the river. It’s utterly silent, the river a milky white. It would be easy enough to jump in, I think, but where do you get out? I throw in a stick and watch for evidence of a current, just as Lewis Pugh did in 2006. The stick moves, ever so slightly, downstream.
    The next morning it’s a cloudy 13 degrees when Josie Arnold from the Plough drives me to Buscot Lock, close to where Lewis Pugh and Charlie Wittmack began their record-breaking swims.During the recent heatwave Josie jumped in the Thames one night to cool off, as many people do, but she says she’d only ever do it with a friend, never alone. The first thing I see at Buscot Lock is a big sign reading: ‘Welcome to the lock. Please stay safe during your visit. Warning deep water. No swimming’.
    There’s a boat moored on the side of the river, and a tarpaulin spread on the grass where a woman is sitting massaging her legs. Dawn Howard is an Associate Fellow at Sussex University; this is her second day swimming and she’s not wearing a wetsuit. Others arrive and there is a general feeling of anticipation. Our swim guides are Yolande Joubert, an Australian, and former beach lifeguard Eleanor Selby who has been a competitive pool swimmer. They offer us tea, coffee, juice, biscuits and nuts, and ask, ‘you have all eaten, haven’t you?’ Then our pre-tour briefing begins and we go round and introduce ourselves. Sandra Simpson says her swimming style is steady, not strong. She did a short triathlon five years ago and was afraid of the swimming part so she did a SwimTrek swim in Majorca to get tips. She’s annoyed that, as she’s over sixty, she had to provide a letter from her doctor, who basically said ‘she seems fine to me’.
    I’ve been told I must have insurance for this Thames trip and have to produce evidence of it at the start or I won’t be able to swim. So a few months ago I’d contacted the Post Office who said they couldn’t provide cover if it was for a professional, tournament or competition swim. They also said I’d need a minimum of two nights’ pre-booked accommodation – which is why I’m staying at the Plough Inn. But the Post Office doesn’t seem sure about wild swimming and they ring their underwriters before calling back. The final answer is that, as long as the Thames trip is ‘professionally organised, supervised and supported’, I have cover. But now we’re here at the Thames, and I’m told insurance isn’t necessary after all.
    Aside from Sandra and me, there are ten others in the group. Ian Rees, the only man, is going to do a triathlon and he wants totry the whole way using front