Tough Women; Wimpish Men – The Evidence from Pwllgwaelod This morning Daphne wanted to swim at Pwllgwaelod: she swims twice a week and often well into the year.

I have often spent 20 minutes up to my thighs in the sea, shivering, while trying to immerse myself. I can’t back off, I have to take the plunge.

“Just plunge in, it's the best way. You can’t stand there all day. One plunge and you will feel OK.”

The shouts come from Daphne swimming around like a seal, usually breast stroke and then with the sheer joy of life, churning the water like a Mississippi Paddle Boat.

Sometimes some of the spots of water hit me and they are cold. Then she ends with a “float” on her back shouting some provocative comment such as, “I really like floating.”

This means she is nearly leaving and heading for her towel. Half an hour later I am shivering so much I can hear my teeth chattering like a pneumatic drill on hard concrete.

So in I plunge, swim as if I were being chased by Jaws, my legs churning. Then I am out, often after staying for as long as two minutes. I decided that a couple of minutes left me with the tattered remnants of what passes for my dignity.

In Nelson’s time most of the seamen couldn’t swim. In the Patrick O’Brien’s novels his captain, Jack Aubrey, was one of the few men on the ships he commanded who could swim.

He enjoyed diving into the sea to save their lives. In some conditions, whether you are able to swim or not, if you go over the side you will drown. This happens in the Southern Ocean, with perhaps 30 foot waves, and no boat one can turn back in those storms.

At Pwllgwaelod I was not swimming. An Australian woman with two under fives asked me if I swam myself. “No, too cold for me. So much for tough men.”

She is a Marine Biologist living in Manchester and enthusing about the Pembrokeshire coast. Her husband, a lecturer at Manchester University, had been with her until recently. He had intended to swim but did not.

I was riding in the Preselis yesterday and it wasn' the easiest of terrain. I was the only man. Carolyn Morgan, led the file of horses, our friend Maggie kept an eye open for cars or tractors, there was a school girl from Wolfscastle who opened and closed all the many gates.

A Swedish Agricultural student, and a local woman who was training to be sponsored for the horse ride to raise money for Leucu, completed the group.

Roz, our daughter, broke both arms, cut her chin and nose badly, when spooked by her horse and was thrown into a gate. She was fourteen at the time.

After two weeks, one of them in the Queens Medical Centre in Nottingham, she came on holiday to Brittany with her arms still in plaster. I rest my case.

At least I didn’t fall of my horse.