Dom Joly: Sometimes you have to go with the flow

Last week I watched an amazing film from the 1960s called The Swimmer, starring Burt Lancaster. It's about a man whose wife and kids have left him and, in the middle of a shattering nervous breakdown, he decides to swim all the way home using his neighbour's swimming pools. I couldn't get the idea out of my head. Because I live in Gloucestershire rather than California, there aren't that many pools around, but we do have the river Coln running right through the village and I was fairly sure that it went to the nearest big town. I asked Parker what she thought about us trying to swim down the river all the way to Fairford? I estimated that it must be about four miles. Parker looked a little puzzled but I started to get quite excited and I think my enthusiasm rubbed off on her. I told her to sneak upstairs and get a swimming costume and not tell Mummy as she might not be quite as keen on the idea as I was.

Ten minutes later we were standing on the bridge in the village ready to jump. I looked over at my little girl, so brave at the age of four. I blew her a kiss and hurled myself into the icy shallow water. She let out an excited scream and followed me in. Being summer the water only came up to my waist and we both half floated on our backs through the village watching the eaves of the buildings slip away. One indignant neighbour looked on aghast from the middle of her rhubarb plantation as we cruised past her riverside garden. "Morning," I cried pleasantly. She ignored me, suddenly digging faster and faster.

Parker was loving it, her little feet splished and splashed in the reeds as we passed Huxley Bay, the little inlet where we normally take our dog Huxley for a swim and Parker used to climb her tree until the farmer hacked it down. The current got a bit stronger and allowed us to float happily through fields of curious cows. Parkie shouted "helloo moo" but they ignored her. So typical of cows, no real sense of adventure.

As we glided round a bend where the river splits into two we spotted a fisherman sitting on a tiny stool. We both waved at him and Parker asked him if he'd caught anything. He was clearly trying to ignore us, but his hook got caught in my swimming trunks and I nearly pulled him off the dwarf stool. It was a matter of seconds before I'd unhooked myself, apologised and drifted away but he was up and effing and blinding until we disappeared round another bend.

When we finally drifted into Fairford we got out at the millpond and wandered contentedly into town, dripping wet in just our swimsuits enjoying the hot sun on our backs and intent on getting an ice-cream before working out how to get back home. I'd forgotten it was "fun run" day. Sharon Davis, who, having moved into the area a couple of months ago, and now officially opens every envelope in the area, was poised to start the event. She, the whole crowd plus several photographers stared open-mouthed in our direction as we wandered into view. Maybe it was my tight little Speedos?

I tried to keep the whole thing a secret from Stacey but the headline and accompanying photo in the next edition of the local paper said it all: "Large whale and offspring beaches in Fairford." Maybe we should stick to forest fires in future.