Fordyce Maxwell: 'I have fond memories, make that memories, of learning to swim aged 11'

AFTER much thought I have pinpointed a reason for Britain's decline as a world power. It was the gradual disappearance of open-air, unheated, salt water swimming pools.

Yes, the Second World War and its aftermath had something to do with the decline. But not as much as us exchanging the bracing, if shrinking, effect of cold North Sea tidal water for the chlorinated steaminess of heated indoor pools.

By gad, sir, the sea-water pools that almost every coastal town used to have helped make many of us of a certain age what we are today. "Stop moaning and get in there, lad," from an ex-Army gym teacher taught us that life was earnest and involved suffering.

There are no doubt one or two such pools still about – basic rule of journalism, never claim an absolute – but up much of the east coast that I've walked recently there are only remains. One or two are big, such as Tynemouth, a mess of rusting handrails, weeds and concrete. But most, such as those at Pittenweem and Berwick, are only remnants and disintegrating ruins.

A recent letter in our local paper suggested it would be a good idea to reconstruct what used to be called the bathing ponds at Berwick (one for men, one for women, let's keep a sense of propriety). Fat chance, even before Health & Safety departments have a say about the dangers of sharing a pool with flounders and crabs, seaweed and jellyfish, or slipping on bare concrete. We might as well suggest rebuilding the draughty concrete-shelter changing rooms with its peek-a-boo doors and re-introduce baggy woollen swimming trunks to recreate the genuine 1950s atmosphere.

I have fond memories, make that memories, of learning to swim when I was 11, when about 20 of us were marched down to the bathing pond, ordered to change then marched in.

Thin boys were more inclined to whimper than those with muscles and/or padding as walking in brought creeping numbness to various parts. Those who could swim struck out frantically to try to stimulate circulation. The rest of us were told to hang on to the metal side bar and kick before trying to float on our backs.

Those who tried this and started to drown were hauled out, back-slapped, and pushed in again. After half an hour it was into the shower-less changing rooms to compare notes and altered dimensions.

Surprisingly, within a few weeks I could swim, a kind description of my virtually self-taught, rolling crawl which shipped a lot of water and rubbed my shoulders raw. But by the end of the following summer and for several more, stubbornness kept me swimming for hours.

Or at least longer than anyone else. I was often the only swimmer there after school – frothy coffee in glass cups and juke box music had arrived even in Berwick – to slog back and forth, dreaming of swimming the Channel.

I never managed that. At my speed and style it would take a week. But I still swim occasionally in one of our well-equipped, warm, local pools. I seem to feel the cold more than I used to.