17/09/2016 by Carl Reynolds
Not the one in London. And who knows why it’s called London Bridge. The Victorians named it. It doesn’t look like London Bridge; none of the manifestations. But it is so called. And one Saturday afternoon, that seductive siren, Sophie called us to swim from Peak Tor Cove to London Bridge and back. And we don’t know why it’s called Peak Tor neither, but I’d been mistakenly calling it Imperial Quay; as it’s down the hill from the Imperial Hotel.
Still. On a low spring tide we stumbled in and swam over ranges of mermaid hair and kelp along tidally scoured rocks, through the London Bridge eye and back. Via a few stops to ooh and argh at squirting Dead Mens Fingers, caves, fissures and figures variously geologically marvellous. And a ginger arse to the tourist boat.