While Gary Barlow was accruing national treasure status and Grace Jones was hula hooping herself into the collective consciousness, I swam on the Neame with the Outdoor Swimming Society.
The suggestion was a dip under the light of the full moon, which in the event, was substituted by a longer swim in the late evening. The remainder of the night was spent within inches of leaping flames, in an attempt to simmer cold, thick blood back to liquidity.
Earlier on in the day I walked around the camp site in Fotheringhay, which aptly referenced Royalty on this Jubilee weekend, with the beheading of Mary Queen of Scots in 1587. A local caravan club had booked the whole site for their exclusive use, so were curious about our intrusion.
I walked from flag to flag around the field photographing this corner of England which had momentarily become an eco estate for retirees. A curious man wandered over after I’d photographed the last one, wanting to know about our group. He later disappeared into a tent the size of a poly tunnel, guarded by life-size cardboard cut-outs of Beef-eaters. We heard them partying – gently. The music stopped before we had a chance to turn in.
I’m curious about this growing age group of retired people who will live, many in good health, beyond what we might call old age.