A year of wild swimming

 A year ago I jumped in at the deep end, not in the literal sense (jumping into cold water is not a sensible idea) and took my first dip into a wild green lake during the hottest week in history. At the time I wanted to escape the impossible heat of an out-of-control English summer simmering at 40 degrees. I didn't realise during that first swim how much that deep green water would swallow my soul and that I'd swim once to twice a week for the next twelve months, come rain, snow and ice. 

Waterlilies floating on the surface of the lake.

I grew up swimming in the sea as a kid, oo-ing and aa-ing through the pebble beach dance to reach the waves in Pevensey before graduating to drunken nights on the sandy shores of Studland bay as a student. This simple joy became forgotten as life and work took over, moving away from the coast to city life. Swimming pools never really compared, too noisy, too small and the chlorine turned my fair hair an alarming shade of green. 

Steps down into the water, edged by waterlilies

My first swim was a rather nervous affair, the older you get the more you become aware of your mortality and my fear in swimming over the deepest part of the lake was real. It must have shown in the whites of my eyes as a passing swimming asked if I was OK. I clung to my borrowed float, convinced I was going to drown, treading water until my breathing slowed, then it just happened, I'm convinced it was simply the colour green surrounding me, holding me, and I swam and swam and I loved it, more than loved it, I needed it...I cannot explain just how good it makes you feel.

The jetty covered in frost and ice

August passed, then October, November and suddenly I was swimming on Christmas Eve, then New Year's Day, my feet breaking a thin layer of ice on most January mornings. The water temperature dropped, first just below 10 degrees and then to my coldest swim at 1.9 degrees. If anything, I preferred the colder temperatures, the life-affirming glow stays with you the rest of the day, nothing seems too hard when you've broken the ice in just a swimsuit. 

Ducks standing on the edge of ice on the lake

During the winter months I wear neoprene gloves and socks but otherwise just a normal swimsuit, known as 'skins' by fellow wild swimmers. The joy of digging my toes in the sub-aquatic mud is something to look forward to around April. I don't swim fast and only do the breaststroke, watching my hands disappear through the reeds, feeling the sensation of the water that holds me, staring up at the clouds and the birds. I mostly swim first thing, at first light in winter, as early as possible during the summer. As I slip through the water I join the community of creatures that share the space with me, giant carp surface, smaller fish dart in shoals, frogs, grass snakes, ducks and geese and once a brilliant red fox lapping at the edge. 

Reflected sky a still day

I've swum in rain and shine, mist, windy days and approaching storms. When it rains, it looks like the surface of the lake reaches up to join the sky and sometimes at dawn the sun is so low you can only swim with your eyes shut. When days are still, and you slide between the reflected clouds it feels like you are flying through the sky. Yes, it's very easy to lose yourself in the green and blue. Wild swimming should be prescribed, it's saved my soul.