by Joe Minihane
The wide path slipped straight into the fast-flowing river, a wooden bridge to its left leading pedestrians over to the other side. This stony little beach was as good a place as any to get in, so we began undressing quickly and struggling into our wetsuits. Each of us was out of practice in the precise art of putting on neoprene, and it took a good ten minutes before we were all sucked in and ready to go.
Joe and Tom stepped towards the water, kitted out in boots and gloves to stave off the cold. I, however, had made a horrid realisation. My neoprene shoes, which had seen me through so many dips over the past year, had gone missing. They were nowhere to be found in my bag and Tom had definitely emptied the boot of the car. Neither did I have gloves. As Roger says, the cold on your hands and your feet will drive you out of the water faster than anything else. I’d learnt this the hard way on the Windrush, and here I was again, ready for another soaking that would leave my feet feeling as if they’d been injected with local anaesthetic.
Joe and Tom headed off to explore. The water moved fast around their legs, the pair of them having to lean into the strong current as they made for the middle of the river. It was shallow, not even waist high, but good enough to class as a winter swim.
I decided that despite my lack of protection, I should join them. I took two steps in and leapt back out in agony, the cold screaming up my legs and into my lower back. There was simply no way I could get in and enjoy the water, so I sat myself on a convenient grassy mound and watched Joe and Tom splash around, finding places where the riverbed dropped, letting them slip under and swim hard against the unpredictable push of the Test. I’d have to practise the art of feeling the water without being in it that I had perfected up in Scotland.
I was happily watching when Tom waded back and handed me his gloves and boots, his dark beard glistening with river water. We swapped places and he took pictures while I set off on a mission. Joe had already tried and failed to swim all the way from one side to the other, finding himself run aground and washed away downstream, human flotsam unable to tame the river’s power. Now I gave it a go. The noise and confusion of the white water by the wooden bridge was overwhelming, and as soon as I lifted my feet and tried to swim I was swept away. I clawed at the still visible chalky riverbed and managed to half swim, half crawl to just past midway before it became clear there was no way I could make it.
Standing up, I didn’t feel disappointed; rather, delighted. Despite the fact it was deep midwinter, we’d managed to make it out of London and into a distant wild-swimming hole. A pair of golden retrievers were playing with Tom on the bank as I walked back over, struggling to stay upright where chalky mud gave way to slippery rocks. I watched as I sank backwards and found a slightly less turbulent stretch closer to the river’s edge, where I could starfish and let the water lick the back of my head. Another river baptism.
Heading in to dry off, the two dogs gallivanted into the drink, unconcerned by the cold.
‘A helpful dog laundry,’ said their owner as they scurried back out, shook themselves off and bounded away towards the road.
After twenty minutes of struggling with wet neoprene and balancing precariously on old plastic bags so as not to cut our feet on the wet gravel of the towpath, we strode back to the Jag and dumped our things. In Stockbridge we ate cream teas, a summery treat to follow a summery activity, even if it was now starting to blow a gale and rain was falling on the town’s main road.
Doing this now, in the depths of winter rather than holding out for good weather, fitted neatly with my new approach of following Waterlog in my own fashion, observing any changes while I was enjoying myself, not just rushing around and taking dips in order to box-tick my way around Roger’s favourite swimming holes. I was doing it because it made me feel more alive, more human, with anything else coming second. OK, I hadn’t gone for a mile-long splash out of town like Roger, the push of ‘Mother Test’ at my back. But the happy nods and grins we’d got from locals who’d walked past as we swam proved that getting into the river here was not something to be denied, rather another way to enjoy the water, even in the depths of January.
CHAPTER TWO
March
Highgate Men’s Pond, London – Burnham Overy Staithe, Norfolk – River Bure, Norfolk
As winter continued I went for a series of swims in the men’s pond at Highgate. After the enjoyable soaking at Stockbridge, I wanted to get acclimatised for early spring swimming without having to resort to the wetsuit. I may have been after a more languid look at Waterlog’s rivers, lakes and lidos, but at the same time I was desperate to see as much as I could in the warmer months. My wrist and my mind were working well and I wanted to make up for lost time, to travel and learn more about what Roger had seen.
Highgate was the perfect place to relearn how to stay in cold water for long periods. It was close to home and near to one of my favourite places for an afternoon tea in London. With my new-found ability to recognise when I felt guilty and anxious about indulging in such activities despite having done all of my work, and allowing myself to go and enjoy them anyway, I took up this new approach with gusto.
On one of my lunchtime trips, one of the daily regulars told me that this was the coldest he’d known the water to be in his eight years of doing the whole winter season.
‘It’s been more consistent this year,’ he said. ‘I’ve experienced it colder but it’s been sticking stubbornly around 3°C.’
I can confirm it was very cold, good enough only for the very shortest of swims along the jetty, but enough to get my blood pumping and my body set for the next few months of watery adventures.
I got to test my new-found hardiness in early March, when I returned to the north Norfolk coast. My day on the wide stretch of beach at Holkham with Tim a year before had stayed with me for a long time afterwards: the distant churn of the waves, the strong breeze and the skies that seemed as big as anything I’d seen anywhere else around the world.
I had also missed out a swim of Roger’s on my last visit, off the beach further round the coast at Burnham Overy Staithe, and wanted to sink into the water and see whether it differed just a few kilometres away from Holkham.
Tim was with me again, as were Molly and her old friend Tom. We met as usual in Norwich, Molly driving the hour north to the village of Burnham, past its inland harbour and along a high wall which protected Overy Marsh. When Roger came here, boats chugged back and forth from the sea, ‘boat people’ sitting in dinghies eating sandwiches and enjoying the summer sun.
The tide was well on its way out as we walked the zigzag mile towards the dunes, and the muddy creeks were littered with debris. A recent storm surge had destroyed boardwalks all along the Norfolk coast, their remnants washed up here and there, standing in the mud like ancient shipwrecks. The body of a headless seal lay rotting on the grass, while crows squawked overhead, the broken bodies of sea birds everywhere we looked. The macabre atmosphere was broken only by lapwings pee-witting overhead.
As at Holkham, emerging through the rolling dunes at the edge of Burnham Overy Staithe was a wondrous experience. The twenty-foot schlep up the loose sandy dune was rewarded with the most spectacular view of the harbour entrance as it met the North Sea. Great big inviting pools dotted the beach.
Despite my exertions in Highgate, I had brought my wetsuit along as backup. It was still March, after all, and not nearly warm enough for anything approaching a serious swim without neoprene. I mentioned this to Molly, who as ever took up her hectoring about the evils of wetsuits. None of my companions would be getting togged up, so why should I? Tim joined in the tirade while Tom stood back. I let myself be peer-pressured into going in bareback, despite the first snivels of a cold leaving my nose twitching. I knew it was stupid, but the chance to get that sweet hit of adrenalin was too good to miss out on.
My only concession to the cold, other than my thin summer shorts, was my new pair of swimming shoes. These gave me a modicum of protection as I strode into the shallows, keeping m
y feet warm while the others screamed blue murder. It was a windy day as always on this long sweep of coastline, but the waves were unusually subdued compared to twelve months before. They didn’t burst against my chest and send shivers up my spine. And unlike other North Sea swims, I could see the seabed, the little sand valleys staying firm under the attention of the water.
Slipping under, I panted like the dogs I’d met on the Test and swam out further and further, going for a few minutes longer than I’d been managing at Highgate in recent weeks. There was no chance to wallow here as Roger had done, and the outgoing tide prevented us from swimming into the brackish waters of the harbour. Instead we raced back out and rubbed the wet sand from our legs, pulling on layers as the sun began to slide from view. My arms were bright red and my ears burned up as the blood rushed back towards my extremities. I could feel my chest heave and my nose fill with snot. I’d hastened the cold I knew had been brewing, but the high was so acute that it didn’t matter.
The long walk back warmed us up, the late winter sun offering some extra heat too. Back over the marsh, we stopped to watch lapwings and little egrets feasting on invertebrate treats in the mud revealed by the outgoing tide. A short-eared owl took off and caused all other birdlife close by to scatter. It glided away inland and we tracked its flight path, catching a glimpse of a marsh harrier riding high on the thermals above.
* * *
By now I was reviving the trip’s momentum and started laying more concrete plans. Each week on my calendar had a swim pencilled in, although I made sure to tell Keeley that I wasn’t being too inflexible about it and wasn’t going to beat myself up if things slipped or I had to change the timetable. As more cells on my spreadsheet turned green, I began to see it as a fun part of the trip rather than a way of turning it into a joyless task. Looking at the list of swims left, I began to wonder what each of them had in store. What would the weather be like? How would I get into the water? How cold would it be? What would have changed in the intervening twenty years since Waterlog? I began snapping up OS maps and carefully starring spots on each of them where I thought Roger might have swum.
After our swim at Burnham I’d developed a chesty cough and cold which took the best part of two weeks to shake. The weather was still doing a passable impression of winter, so I didn’t worry about not getting back out there and instead dosed myself up on honey and lemon, scouring maps in my dressing gown, sleeping and making sure to say yes to any work that came my way in order to fund my Waterlog trips.
Ready to get back out on the road, I made a beeline for East Anglia. I was keen to try and get as many of the swims around Roger’s home done in the spring before looking further afield as summer spread north across the country. I chose one that wouldn’t require too long a drive for my regular chauffeurs.
Molly, Tim and I were in search of John’s Water, an elusive mill pool a few miles west of Aylsham on the River Bure. Roger is deliberately vague about this swimming hole, in a bid to protect it from hordes of wild swimmers descending in summer, but with Waterlog in hand and a decent map I’d been able to track it down successfully. Roger came here in the October of his journey, and I was fully expecting the water to be every bit as icy as he had found it. It was a grey day and the temperature was on the low side for this time of year, so I had packed my wetsuit. Roger eschewed his neoprene outfit on his visit, and while I knew Tim and Molly would disapprove, I was keen to have a longer swim and do some exploring downstream, not to mention stay healthy after being laid up thanks to my willingness to go in without protection back in Burnham.
I was chuffed to find the pool exactly where I thought it would be, matching precisely Roger’s description. We pulled up alongside an open-sided cart shed mentioned in the book and hopped out to get changed. A mill race rushed out from under old farm buildings, the road kinking south and away behind high hedgerows. I fancied that little had changed here in a hundred years, let alone the twenty since Roger’s visit.
The shed, the perfect place to get togged up for a swim, was covered in graffiti, its floor dotted with crushed cans and cigarette packets, the marks of the kids who clearly came here to drink, smoke and, perhaps, swim. But being rural Norfolk rather than urban south London, the phrases were a touch more prosaic. Tim was breathless with laughter when he saw the biggest tag, engraved in huge capital letters.
‘JOSH PARSLEY IS THIN.’
We trawled the walls for more gems. ‘I pissed here’ had an innocent charm to it. The mean streets of Camberwell felt a very long way away. While Tim and Molly read a few more, putting off the inevitable, I went and got suited up in a dry corner of the shed and allowed myself a moment in the Bure alone. I dropped in twenty metres or so downstream from the mill race, the water whipped white and speeding beneath the old farm before eddying into a deep, inviting pool. I swam towards it and saw the gravelly beach from where Roger would have strode in.
I remembered his words about swimming into the turbulent water here, so I did so at speed, well out of my depth, allowing the water to turn me around and fire me off downstream. I was in my own natural water flume, free and far more enjoyable than the hellish rides found at tacky theme parks. The wetsuit and my blue silicone cap cut out the cold and I kept swimming back for more, speeding away into the shallows before wading back towards the deeper water and doing it all over again.
On my fourth or fifth time round I saw Molly edging towards the water down the gravel beach. Molly’s hardiness had impressed me every time we’d swum together in the past year, and her entrance here was no exception. As soon as the water touched her toes she took big strides, going deeper every time before launching forward fast and refusing to scream. Despite being inoculated from the cold by thick rubber, I knew how freezing it was, my hands red raw without the protection of gloves.
Tim, naturally, went for the more extreme option. Cursing as he walked in, he reached thigh depth before beginning a count to three. On two, he tombstoned face forward, surfacing and shouting.
‘It hurts. It hurts.’
These aren’t exactly the words you want to hear on an isolated river on a cold day, but Tim was fine. It was the shock of the water that had caused him to shout, rather than any hideous injury. I let the pair of them get on with their own swims, explaining my flume ride before shooting off once more and going for a wander.
The Bure was very shallow just beyond the cart shed, no more than knee deep. Water crowfoot swayed around me, with tresses of watercress everywhere I trod, much as Roger had found when he came here. I was pleased that this spot seemingly remained unknown and hidden, too far from Aylsham to walk for a casual swim. Only the graffiti attested to anyone being here recently, and compared to other rural swimming places there wasn’t too much litter, in the water at least. That added to the Pre-Raphaelite vibe as I walked further and further along the centre of the river, away from Tim and Molly’s hundred-mile-an-hour chatter, both of them clearly enjoying strong endorphin highs. The wetsuit wouldn’t afford me one of those, but at least it let me lose myself deeply in my surroundings without feeling the nip of the cold around my ankles and across my chest.
I walked back the same way I came and enjoyed a couple of last rounds on the flume before climbing out and divesting myself of my second skin. I got dressed and sat in the shadow of the cart shed eating leftover quiche and drinking tea from a flask. Happily, this is a place that Roger would definitely have recognised down to the last detail, although perhaps not the reminder about Josh Parsley’s waistline.
CHAPTER THREE
April
Highgate Men’s Pond, London – Hathersage, Derbyshire – Well Creek, Middle Level Drain and the Great Ouse, Norfolk
Back in London I continued to use the men’s pond as my alternative to Roger’s moat, readying myself for May and the opening of the mixed pond on the other side of the Heath. Spring was well and truly underway, the light pushing hard against the curtains on murky mornings, and I wanted to swim every day that I could. Trips
to the pond were becoming a ritual, with each part of the routine refined day by day. I would arrive around 9.30, walking up from the train station in Kentish Town, changing quickly in the enclosed metal shed which acted as a pleasant sun trap, making getting out of clothes less tortuous than on exposed Norfolk beaches and riverbanks.
Despite the warmer weather, coconut matting was still down on the jetty, meaning the walk from clothes to water was a little less painful on the feet. The ropes however, had been pushed back out, swimmers now able to stroke further from the safety of the changing area thanks to the rising water temperature.
The water had reached double figures by early April, when I took my last swim there before getting back out on the road, and I was able to enjoy a comfortable ten minutes before the goosebumps on my chest told me it was time to get back to the warmth of my coat and the life-giving steam of a hot chocolate at the resolutely old-school café at the bottom of Parliament Hill.
I slapped wet footprints over the matting and across the concrete floor of the changing area, drying off with a starchy towel, feeling happily braced. Adding this swim to my routine was working wonders for my anxiety. It gave life an added clarity and seemed to create more purpose, a necessary break from the working day. This was what I had hoped swimming would give me when I set out to retrace Roger’s journey. It didn’t fix things in and of itself, but it gave me the warm feeling of contentment I needed to be able to face up to my worries, and to deal with them by talking and listening to others. I imagined this is what the moat afforded Roger – a space to both indulge a passion and work out the kinks of day-to-day life in the most private way possible, before facing them head on. I was using swimming as an adjunct to other techniques, from breathing exercises and running around my local park to yoga and meditation, to combat worry, rather than expecting to find all the answers in the water.