Girl in a Fur Coat: Seal Watching Off the Scilly Isles by Richard Waters

Casting off from Higher Town quayside in an orange zodiac, St Martin Island's summer fete setting up behind the beach, I didn't know what to expect; most of my encounters with wild animals had been through a windscreen or in Southeast Asian jungles where they'd scarpered before we got to them. Judging by the close encounters with seals I'd Googled on the net, there was no such problem here in the Scilly Isles. 

The uninhabited Eastern Isles where you can swim with Grey Seals were charcoal smudges against a perfect blue sky; one of them the rumoured resting place of King Arthur. Legend has it he fled here followed by his nemesis, Mordred, whom Merlin drowned in a great flood separating Avalon from the mainland. 

Another holds that a tsunami swept over Lyonesse submerging it under the sea in the last year of the 11th-century; that the tips of its mountain peaks are in fact today's scattered islands of Scilly. Old timers believe the churches and houses are still down there, stretching all the way (28 miles) to Lands End. 

Through the ages, fishermen have heard underwater bells toll mournfully in the deep, between spotting 3ft mermaids combing their hair on rocks... Welcome to the Isles of Scilly, a place where myth and reality blend happily in a cocktail of romantic escape. And I was about to swim over those ringing bells of Lyonesse.

Anna Cawthray was our skipper, her weathered colleague, John Ives our tutor. She caught the Scilly seals bug back in '98, left her job in Bristol and settled here permanently (don't you just hate those singled-minded types?) 

As eight of us raw recruits sat in double layers of neoprene sweating under the rising sun, John explained the parameters of our mission: "Don't stroke the seals, try not to splash... and don't drift out to sea too far from the boat. The males are much larger – grey with a roman nose – the young ones and females are friendlier. Oh, and one other thing, " he smiled sagely, "They like to sneak up behind you." That was that then, I'd head for the girls.  

As we left the tombola and cake competition behind, the boat nosing the azure waters, black shags on jagged rocks portentously outstretched their wings in sham crucifixions. I was thinking about those males with the roman noses. My leaflet from the Tourist Office suggested they even could grow up to 3.3 metres, quite a bit bigger than me then. 

As we rounded the Eastern Isles, the water was rougher, tendrils of nut-brown kelp grasping for the surface as if trying breathe, fat grey waves slapping granite rocks. Anna slowed the boat to a mild cruise as we kitted up with our snorkels and fins, "They may not want to play today which we have to respect, but if they're curious then that's a good sign." Scilly Diving set up here in '88, and it's precisely this sensitivity to the seals' mood swings that's allowed this trusting relationship between man and beast to develop. 

I looked at the dark water and plunged in. There's a funny feeling that accompanies propelling yourself into an unknown element; be it into the air from a zip-line, or into water to swim with wildlife – it curdles in the stomach for a few seconds like a sobering warning then vanishes and you just get on with it. The first grey snout broke the surface, peering at us like a wet spaniel, its wide-set eyes huge black marbles. Then another popped up – they were curious all right. 

What's peculiar about this particular colony of Grey Seals is its deference to you entering their habitat – the equivalent of gate crashing someone's house in fancy dress and sitting on their lawn. Normally seals, even this larger variety and one of the rarest species in the world, are skittish at your first appearance and will head to the depths, but the seals that have congregated around this remote clump of rocks seem interested in receiving visitors. Whether they become more intimate with you is a matter of fortune and how playful you are in return to their advances. Chemistry? You betcha. 

The first thing about immersing yourself in that green ocean (a couple of degrees colder than coastal Cornish waters) is how clear a memory you suddenly have – for as my breath was stolen by the icy grip of the sea I suddenly recalled every species of shark known to pass through here; Thresher, Blue, Shortfin, Mako, Greenland, occasional Smooth Hammerhead, and those juggernaut filters known as Basking Shark... And weren't seals the preferred main course of Orca? Well Orca had been seen here. 

Visibility was good, ten metres, perhaps more, I could easily see through the kelp forest sashaying in unison with the currents. Then a flurry of bubbles turned everything silver and the first three metre heavyweight made himself known to me. Not so much a roman nose, more like a boxer's; battle-torn gunmetal hide, wide flat eyes, staring at me as if I'd just eyed up his mate for a new coat or challenged him to a ruck on the seabed. His neck was thicker than a fire hydrant. With a flick of his muscled tail he was gone, me floating like neoprene man who'd eaten all the pasties. 

The rest of the group had fanned out to explore their own little coves of discovery – hopefully a booth with a seal. For this is aquatic speed dating, only this encounter doesn't last three minutes, you've got a whole hour in the water. It might not sound sufficient, but any longer and your fingers turn to prunes, your head aching with 'ice cream syndrome'. 

After a few minutes my prospective date appeared, gliding through the seaweed graceful as a verse of Keats. She was milk-white, perhaps five foot long, kohl eyeliner framing pretty amber irises, her lashes perfectly teased. Show off – she was swimming upside down, a half-grin on her whiskery face. I bobbed about - you're not winning any ballet awards in those suits – then tried to follow at a safe distance. 

Given that seals can reach speeds of up to 20mph she wouldn't have a problem leaving me for dust – or if you will, shark meat. Through the kelp George Foreman had reappeared to monitor my charm offensive. Throughout my subsequent synchronized arabesques with my suitor he watched us with the ferocity of a Victorian chaperone. Seal hunting has been banned in the Scillies for over a hundred years, but even armed with a club you wouldn't want to tangle with this fella.

I didn't know how far out I'd drifted, I just wanted to keep up with my playmate. Beguiling as a siren, one minute she was there, next minute she was gone. Something was tugging at my foot; I turned around to see her yellow teeth fastened on one of my flippers, and then she floated upwards like a mermaid (it's called bottling) to engage with me. Eye to eye we watched each other for perhaps ten seconds, me wanting to stroke her but aware of those playful canines. Her? Well just curious to take a look at this cumbersome outlander who'd wandered into her watery realm.

My next liaison with seals (a dry affair, though no less rewarding) was with Island Sea Safaris who operate out of Old Town harbour on the island of St Marys. Provided you can wield a pair of binoculars and hold onto the super swift boat, even a child can go; as evidenced by my five year old son Finn, who screamed with delight every time the hi-tech inflatable passed up and down the trough of a swell. 

Skippered by Mark Groves, an experienced diver who mans the wheel with the salty garrulity of a Cornish buccaneer, and his sprightly wife, Susie, the boat whizzed across silk soft waves to another known seal colony (10 minutes ride past uninhabited Samson island). We couldn't see them to begin with, their blubbery hides perfectly camouflaged against the brown-grey rock. Then one barked, another wobbled on a rock like a weeble and shook its great head in mild irritation. 

All the while Susie furnished us with interesting info on passing birds, downed ships (530 registered wrecks around the isles) and patiently answered my questions; no there hadn't been any recent sightings of Basking shark (though she flourished a close-up underwater shot by Mark, of one seemingly the size of an ocean liner Hoovering plankton). We left these seals in peace and moved on to another archipelago of rocks around which swam the now familiar dogs' heads. Upon a ledge snuggled into its mothers chocolate hide was a furry white pup with oversized blinking eyes. 

Our next attraction was the aptly named Hell Bay; the description of storms that gather in this cauldron was so evocative my son was listening in rapt attention, between bribing me for a chunk of Dairy Milk to stay quiet. Scilly islanders are famous for gig racing; narrow swift vessels once used to assist passing ships trying to navigate the wicked unseen rocks. The first gig out there would offer his services to the captain in return for recompense. And these islanders rowed in all weathers to the assistance of foundering mariners (they still have regular gig races throughout the year). 

Today it was eerily calm, though these tempestuous waters have swallowed countless lives. We almost shivered, for like the bells of Lyonesse deep below lay the barnacled cargo and bones of many a sea lag. 

They say the Isles of Scilly are England time-trapped in the 1950s and perhaps there's some truth in that; the population is almost exactly the same as it was in the early 20th-century, cars are few to nonexistent; bikes left unchained, honesty boxes are everywhere as are organic vegetable stands. 

But what's even weirder is the fact that locals happily chat to strangers - Scillonians don't have derogatory terms like emmets for tourists like mainland Cornish folk, instead they refer to you grandly as visitors. I'd always thought Cornwall was Avalon at the end of the A30, but now I've met her enigmatic cousin I'm not so sure. 

For inspiration on places to stay, check out TI's listings for luxury hotels in the Scilly Isles.