Anyone who knows us will know that my husband, Mr McGowan, is an avid triathlete. He has competed for Team GB at age group level, something I never miss an opportunity to mention. Proud wife privileges.

Competing at that level requires an extraordinary amount of training, often three sessions a day. Every now and then, to spend a bit of quality time together, I tag along where I can. Unfortunately, my interpretation of training is hugely different to his. I cannot match his pace or distance in any of the three disciplines, so our shared sessions usually involve us exercising separately, but in the same place. If he heads into the loch for a swim, I head out for a run.

One of our favourite places to do this is Cauldshiels Loch in the Scottish Borders.

To say it is beautiful would be a considerable understatement. On a calm day, the water glistens beneath rolling green hills, the trees are reflected almost perfectly on the surface, and it is one of those places that makes you stop for a moment and appreciate just how fortunate we are to live where we do.

As I plodded along the shoreline, I would often glance across and spot the bright orange dot of his swimming cap making its way steadily across the water. Somehow, he manages to swim the length of the loch in an almost perfectly straight line, something his Strava maps continue to prove with irritating consistency.

While I admired both the scenery and his determination, I also spent most of those runs quietly worrying. Like many Scottish lochs, Cauldshiels has its own local folklore. One story claims it is twenty three miles deep. How anyone arrived at that figure is beyond me, but once you have heard something often enough, it has an uncanny habit of shaping the way you think.

Whenever Mr McGowan suggested I should join him for a swim, my mind immediately pictured my five foot two frame floating on the surface while my legs dangled above an endless black abyss. My perspective of the loch was not one of tranquillity or adventure. It was one of danger.

His response, however, never changed. “But it’s brilliant once you’re in. The water’s great.”

In my mind, those words belonged beside a swimming pool at a Mediterranean resort, not in relation to a large, dark body of water just a few miles from home. I insisted I was perfectly happy appreciating the scenery from the shore, but he remained convinced that I was missing the best part. According to him, the experience of looking back at the landscape from within the water was completely different from simply looking across it.

Eventually, he adjusted his strategy and one Christmas he bought me a stand up paddle board.

His reasoning was straightforward. If I didn’t want to be in the water, perhaps I would enjoy being on it. It was difficult to argue with that logic, so I agreed to give it a go, albeit with one very important condition. I had absolutely no intention of standing up. My carefully considered plan involved staying firmly on my knees for the entire journey, dramatically reducing the likelihood of falling into the mythical twenty three mile deep depths below.

For a while, that plan worked perfectly. I happily paddled around on my knees, feeling rather pleased with myself for finding what I believed was the ideal compromise. Then curiosity got the better of me. I slowly stood up and, almost instantly, realised what all the fuss had been about.