1 min read
“It’s okay,” a fellow bather mouths with a reassuring smile. I squeal slightly as the water hits my waist before plunging in. It’s perfect. Refreshing without the usual razor-sharp iciness of British waters. I emerge feeling awakened and alive.
A group of us bob around, admiring the stunning white chalk cliffs of the Seven Sisters. Others sit on the shore. No one talks, as this would be breaking the rules. It’s a glorious Sunday morning and I haven’t spoken for over 36 hours.
I’ve come to the Sussex coast to spend the weekend trying something I struggle with at times: keeping my mouth shut. As a performer, the notion of a silent retreat goes against so much of what brings me joy: using my voice and a love of words. I’m a talker. I revel in a witty exchange or an outrageous story.
