Up until last year, I always had a bit of an aversion to going into the sea around the Kent coast.

A combination of coming practically nose-to-nose with jellyfish as a child and the threat of coming face-to-face with a turd in this day and age were always key stumbling blocks.

I had also taken far too much notice of all the warnings you see about how you can quickly be swept out to sea and thought better of it.

Yet last year I decided I was going to give it a go.

It was, in part, financially driven. In a desire to try to remain a little bit fit, I’d wanted to go swimming. Not fancying the prospect of going toe-to-toe with the hoards at the local leisure centre I’d had a quick internet search for health clubs with swimming pools nearby.

After picking myself back off the floor when I’d seen the prices involved, I thought better of that too.

How, I pondered to myself, could I go for a swim and not be charged? I considered this while living about a 10-minute walk from the beach.

The answer was, clearly, staring me in the face.

However, I didn’t want to be a ‘is he waving or drowning’ (it would, for avoidance of doubt should you ever see me flailing be ‘drowning’) sort of figure off our coastline, so jumped in the car and drove a bit along the coast to a nearby tidal pool.

Naturally filled with delightful sea water when the tide is high, when it recedes, you’re left with a saltwater swimming pool. Of sorts.

Yes, jellyfish and poos could still wash into it – there’s no denying that – but not even my feeble breaststroke will see me washed out of a walled pool at high tide.

So I took the plunge. Quite literally. Albeit in a wetsuit which, for the first few goes, I wore back to front (the zip goes at the back! Who knew? Well, the rest of the world probably).

But, frankly, when you’re waddling into the chilly sea (for some reason I’d decided May was the ideal time to start this experiment rather than wait for the warmer summer months), looking preposterous in a wetsuit was the very least of my worries.

It was invigorating, certainly. It was popular – you’d be stunned how many others were doing it too – and, I must admit, I felt great afterwards.

Plus, crucially, I could touch the bottom at any given moment as long as I didn’t swerve too much into the deep end. Perfect.

And – as far as I could see – there was nothing untoward floating before my nose as I did a few lengths.

I’d love to say, dear reader, I went back weekly. I went back a handful of times in truth. Ironically, it’s a bit like the numerous times I’ve splashed out to join a gym…fanatical at first, by month two the gym and I become strangers.

But of course, this time money wasn’t draining from my bank account while I came up with excuses why I couldn’t go. Instead I was left with just my normal sense of disappointment in my lack of willpower. But I’ve had a lifetime of that.

But this year, I’ve vowed I’m going to return and regularly(ish) too. The smart money will be on a repeat of last year’s occasional visit. But still. At least this year, I’ll have my wetsuit round the right way from the get-go.