Floating

by Joe Minihane

  Upstream, where the water slipped past shallow banks, I tugged on my wetsuit and decided to try the wellies anyhow. I looked ridiculous, but I knew I would rather wear this idiosyncratic outfit than a pair of speedos, Roger-style, especially as the drizzle had by now turned to persistent rain. I dropped in and half walked, half slid into the pool in front of me. The limestone was slippery and impossible to stand up on, so I climbed back out and swapped into my neoprene shoes, which were warmer, but afforded even less grip.

  I didn’t wear gloves and immediately regretted it as I stuck my hands into the stream. The water fell straight from the hills and was bitterly cold, turning my fingers first red, then blue. I couldn’t imagine it would have been much warmer when Roger came, and it made his exploits here seem all the more foolhardy and, I’ll admit, impressive.

  I swam in the first pool to acclimatise, then let myself slide over the narrow lip and into the next one. It was deeper and cooler, with a high overhang under which I could swim easily against a fast-flowing eddy. I stayed here for a while and began to wonder just what I was doing. How had I, a person who had a visceral fear of water as a schoolboy, wound up standing in a narrow gorge in one of the most isolated corners of northern England? I enjoyed the stupidity of it all, realised it made me feel happy and alive, and decided to drop down to the next pool. And then the next.

  All this time, Dave stood high up on the bank, shouting down dark portents about what would happen if I carried on. I knew he was right, but I could feel the water pushing me on, further into the underworld. There was a dark, mysterious pull too, the gorge coaxing me on to find out what was hidden further down in its bowels. Perhaps I could go all the way.

  At last I reached the point of no return. Here the gill took a sharp right and thundered off deep into nothingness. I didn’t have a rope and knew from both Roger and Tony Waltham’s advice that once I committed there was no coming back. My predecessor had somehow managed to scramble clear, but he had a bungee rope with him and the cold water smashing into his bare skin to urge him to get a move on. My climbing skills were non-existent. If I went down this last visible lip, I didn’t know what I’d find and Dave would have to fish me out at the far end.

  I had thought I had come prepared, but as well as my lack of a rope, I had no helmet or head torch either. I swam and pondered for a few minutes and then realised that this was far further than I had ever hoped to get. Just an hour ago I had been thinking that I would splash around in the gill’s lower reaches. But I had come almost as far as Roger and seen a place that had only recently been transformed. I turned and began an unseemly swim and scramble back through the pools, stopping in each one to paddle a few strokes and splash my face. I took a little sip and tasted heather and happiness.

  There was no chance of a sunbathe on the upper reaches of the stream, even if the rain had stopped and the sun was doing its best to burn off the low cloud. Instead I tramped back into the pine wood and stared downstream. I had no regrets about coming out when I did. All my fears about failing to find a swim to match Bryher had been blown away by the sharp falls and little pools of Hell Gill. It was so different and yet equally beautiful. Finally, I had ‘gone big’ in the one place that it mattered most. I felt a surge of relief, knowing that I hadn’t needed to worry about the future of the trip after all. Finishing didn’t worry me anymore; it felt exciting now. It would be an achievement, not an ending.

  I couldn’t bring myself to come all this way and not go in search of the tufa pool on Cowside Beck one last time. I felt transformed after Hell Gill, much like Roger says he had been, and was ready to take on one final challenge for the day before falling into a post-swim snooze on the drive home.

  I was also armed with some new information, handed to me by a fellow Deakin acolyte. It offered a specific place to aim for on the high road opposite Yew Cogar Scar, so I could stride directly over right-to-roam land and into the pool.

  My last time here I had bounded down the high-sided valley in shorts and T-shirt, sinking naked into the shallows when I realised I was lost and would not find the pool before the sun went down. But on this September afternoon all was grey, although the rain had at least cleared up, offering dry passage down to the water.

  I put on my walking boots, Dave choosing to rest his legs in the car and listen to the latest news about the Scottish independence referendum. The noise of an angry radio debate dissipated as I set off.

  I held the OS map and a printout of the directions, determined not to go wrong this time. I vaulted a low fence with a ‘No Access’ sign, staggered to my knees and stood up to see the most perfect natural swimming pool a hundred feet below. I could hear its light burbling as it tickled the low rocks and skirted the moss which surrounded its banks. There was the spinney of ash Roger had spoken about, one of the trees lying prone across the stream.

  In that moment I had the most intense childhood flashback. I was clambering the solitary ash tree at the bottom of my parents’ garden, peering over the wooden fence and beyond the nettle beds to the narrow path cutting through the copse which marked a border between our estate and the next. Older kids rode dirt bikes along the track, their engines whining like wasps.

  That sound buzzed in my ears as I ran down to the tufa pool. I had stuffed my damp wetsuit in my bag, but there was no way I was getting in with ‘the condom’ on. I lay my towel, jacket and flask within easy reach on the high mossy banks and stuck a hand into the water to check just how cold it was. Extremely.

  The natural moss steps made getting in a breeze, but pushing off I was immediately out of my depth. I could see the bottom of the pool beneath the eddying rush, limestone slick with weed, and stuck my head under. It sent a huge shiver along my spine, but I resolved to stay in for as long as my body could take it. I had missed out last time and I wanted to enjoy the cold water here for as long as possible.

  I swam in short circles around the pool, laying across a submerged rock at its edge to stare off downstream. Looking in the direction of Arncliffe, I could see just where I had gone wrong a couple of months before. If I had explored another hundred metres further upstream, rather than turning the other way in frustration, I would have found this place then and been able to skinny-dip and sunbathe in the opening of the little cave which stood next to the top of the pool.

  Any regrets were short lived as I jumped out on the far bank and went for a quick explore around the cave. If it had been warmer I would have drifted off here for a few minutes. But by now I was aware of my skin turning bright pink. I slipped back in and swam a few more laps, before realising that I needed to get out before the shakes really set in.

  I got dressed methodically, taking my time to enjoy the solitude of this special swimming hole, nestled so deep in the valley that it remained a happy secret to those who ventured this far off the path towards Malham Cove.

  I knew Dave would be waiting, wondering where I was, but I poured myself a cup of tea and sipped at it for what felt like an eternity. I offered up thanks to the water gods, the local geology and those handy instructions from a fellow Waterlog aficionado for bringing me to this place.

  Taking one final look, I turned and ran up the hill, my heart pounding in my ears, the most powerful endorphin rush gripping my system and sending me into an ecstatic high. I crested the hill, took a deep breath and felt the cold beck water tingle on my skin as I walked towards the car.

  I went to Hampstead mixed pond for one final ‘moat swim’ before it closed its rickety wooden gate for the last time for the summer. It was a late September morning and the water had dropped below the magical 20°C mark. There was only one other swimmer in, a marked change from the balmy, midsummer chaos I’d enjoyed a few weeks previously. The sun was hidden behind thick cloud on this last trip of the season, and there was no chatter on the banks. The only sound came from a single moorhen pottering in the waterside shrubs.

  I swam out to the far rope and took a look back at the little black wooden shed that doubled up as t
he lifeguard station. It was four years since my first ever trip here with Keeley, and I was hoping this would be my last before finishing up my Waterlog mission. Winter was on the horizon and I wanted to get everything done before it got to ice-breaking levels of cold, making me beat a tactical retreat to the warm embrace of the nearest heated lido. The sense of achievement and contentment I’d enjoyed up in the Yorkshire Dales had travelled back south with me and I was enjoying being on an even keel again after the low following Cornwall. I’d even started going to yoga classes, stretching out in ungainly fashion, but finding a stillness in the breathing and meditation that came with it. I was beginning to make peace with the end of my journey in Roger’s wake and seeing life beyond it, excited about what life held for me, rather than being nervous. I was, ‘Loving everything that increases me’, as Raymond Carver’s poem put it.

  The lifeguards were holding a ‘come rain or shine closing party’ at the mixed pond the day after my dip, but I needed to get out of London once again and get back on Roger’s trail. I had booked train tickets down to Poole and planned a day trip to Bryanston and the Dorset Stour. It was a swim that had somehow fallen off my itinerary, despite having swum all over the south-west at various times in the previous two years.

  It had been almost six weeks since my last proper solo attempt, without a support vehicle or someone holding the towels: the failure to as much as get into the water of the Medway. And while I did feel unsure about heading out alone, I made sure to imbue myself with that sense of feeling the water as I left town, listening to a new swimming playlist I’d made, getting myself ready for a languid dip in the autumn sunshine. Hope shot me through me as the fiddle of ‘Swimming Song’ came through my headphones. Hearing it was almost as good as sliding into the current on a hot day.

  This wasn’t a swim that I had given too much thought to, but I could feel my predecessor guiding me now more than ever, pushing me on to see the country as he had, to swim its rivers and to find joy and happiness in the water and all the other things that it had afforded me since I had started following him.

  There was a last whiff of summer blowing in off the harbour as the train departed Poole and I walked through town to the bus station. The place smelt of salt and boat fuel and I felt at peace as I took a seat on the top deck and watched the coastline recede.

  I had plotted a route to Blandford St Mary, following a footpath through the woods and into the grounds of Bryanston School, where I could drop into the Stour unnoticed. From my high seat on the bus, I could see the wide river meandering away towards the sea, and felt ready to feel its force behind me further upstream. Families clung to the verges of the A road, filling Tupperware with the last of the season’s blackberries. All was well in the West Country.

  On foot, I followed a wide road up towards the little village of Bryanston, frogs flattened and baked into the tarmac. Conkers showered down from crisp, brown horse chestnuts, their unpredictable ‘thunk’ making me jump and stick my hands above my head for protection.

  After getting lost in the grounds of this fancy private school, I dropped down through a dense wood, carpeted with the first fallen leaves of autumn, and emerged onto a private road. A group of workmen were busy talking while a pneumatic drill idled on the ground, ready to make an almighty racket. The path here swung back up into the trees, but I crossed the road and darted down towards the banks of the Stour, sending mud, bracken and pebbles skittering down to the water’s edge.

  This was a very different river to the one I had seen from the bus and the one which Roger had swum in by the school’s boat sheds, which sat further downstream. It moved at a ponderous rate and was narrow too, reminding me of the secluded spot on the Wensum where Tim, Molly and I had swum at the start of the spring. Two fallen trees marked out a 200-metre stretch, ideal for swimming.

  I was hidden from the workmen, so stripped off and slipped in down the bank, my feet crashing through the surface and landing hard on the shallow, stony surface. Everything was in shade here and the river was a good few degrees colder than Hampstead mixed pond. I hadn’t put my wetsuit on, so made sure I didn’t dawdle, wading into the middle and then swimming briskly up and down this natural lido.

  I thought of the sharp nip of the Blandford Bomber, the blackfly which was unique to these parts and which Roger had come here looking for. My predecessor seemed obsessed with this little creature but hadn’t come across it and, thankfully, neither had I. I didn’t much fancy a nasty insect bite on my chin.

  I swam a few lengths and felt the strong push of the current against my chest as I stroked my way upstream. Roger said he didn’t detect a current on the Stour, but almost twenty years on there was most definitely one to contend with.

  Back in Blandford St Mary, I sat beside the Stour as it widened into the village under a long stone bridge, its water covered in blanket weed. This hadn’t been the most memorable of Roger’s swims, but it had been one of the most instructive. It reminded me that I could be bold and do this by myself. This final stretch was set to be one I’d have to tackle largely on my own, and I was beginning to feel fearless.

  I had swum in nearly all of Roger’s chosen spots in the capital: Highgate men’s pond, the Oasis, the private pool at the RAC on Pall Mall, the sauna and steam at Ironmonger Row, Marshall Street Baths and my first ever Waterlog swim, Tooting Bec Lido. But there was one which still eluded me.

  Berthold Lubetkin’s Highpoint apartment complex in Highgate has its own heated outdoor pool, tucked away in the corner of its neatly manicured gardens. I had been trying to manoeuvre my way into this private water ever since I’d first set out on this journey, but my attempts had proven fruitless. I needed a resident to let me in and I was struggling to find a willing sponsor.

  My luck turned after I got back from Bryanston, when I found a contact for the building’s residents’ association. After some toing and froing I was put in touch with Lucy, who lived on the fourth floor and was willing to indulge my whim.

  When I explained about my Waterlog mission, it transpired that she was the same Lucy who had swum with Roger at Highpoint after moving there from Walberswick. Not only would this be a chance to swim in a place I thought I’d never get to, it would also be a good opportunity to get the inside line about Roger’s original adventure from someone who’d been there.

  As it turned out, my timing was fortuitous. Lucy emailed to say that the only date which both of us could do happened to be the last day of the year that the pool would be open. At the end of September the heating was switched off and the pool left to lie dormant during autumn and winter.

  It was a typical smudgy London morning when I walked up North Hill from Highgate Tube station and was shown into the most stunning art deco lobby. An open lift shaft soared away to the top floor, and I entered the cage feeling like James Bond in Diamonds Are Forever. I loved how this journey had sent me to so many strange and different places, Roger’s taste once again proving first rate.

  I emerged on the fourth floor to be greeted by a pair of double doors being swung open, a lady emerging and proffering her hand. This was Lucy. Fit and healthy with luxuriant grey hair, I could imagine her being exactly the kind of swimmer Roger had described. Someone who thought nothing of striking out across the high waves off the Suffolk coast, as he described her in Waterlog, and powering on without a care in the world.

  Lucy showed me in and made tea as I stared out into the garden, the pool a tiny dash of blue far below. Lubetkin was clearly a fan of natural light. The windows curved around the corner of the building, making the room bright and airy despite the autumn gloom outside.

  Lucy explained that she used the pool every day, and had done so since moving down to London in the late nineties. I couldn’t help but ask her what she thought of Waterlog, especially as she was the first of Roger’s cohorts I had met.

  ‘Well, it’s a vanity project, isn’t it?’

  I slurped my tea and fixed my gaze on the carpet.

  ‘Oh,’ I sai
d. ‘Well, I shan’t quote you on that. I’ll make sure that’s off the record.’

  ‘No, that’s quite OK,’ she replied. ‘That’s not to say your project is vain.’

  We maintained a studied silence before switching to small talk of other things. Work, books, art deco buildings. I gradually brought up swimming again. Lucy told me about how much she loved swimming far out to sea, feeling the swell lift her up off the coast of Suffolk. I explained that I never had the nerve for such an approach and preferred getting buffeted by the white water, as I had done at Walberswick almost a year earlier.

  Silence fell and I drained the last of my now lukewarm brew and asked if I could take a dip. Lucy had to accompany me, as non-residents weren’t allowed to swim alone. The rain began falling in mizzly waves as we walked across the gardens and through a locked gate, there to keep out any interlopers.

  Herbaceous borders and shrubs kept the pool hidden until the last possible second, when it appeared like a summery blue dream on this most miserable of London lunchtimes. Short, narrow and just twenty metres long, it was the kind of pool I dreamt of having all to myself, a trade-up on a grimy indoor bath if ever there was one.

  Lucy pointed me to the neat, whitewashed changing block at the far end of the water while she parked herself under a yew tree with her book, instructing me to take my time.

  The flagstones were cold and slippery as I emerged in my shorts and goggles and slipped in. The rain was splashing off the surface, and I wasted no time in powering away into a fast front crawl to warm up. As ever, swimming in the rain was far preferable to standing in it, and I fell into a reverie as length after length elapsed, falling back on the deep-breathing skills I’d picked up in yoga class.

  Occasionally I caught a glimpse of Lucy as I turned to breathe, ensconced in her book and unperturbed by the intensifying downpour. My mind turned to all the other London swims I had enjoyed on my journey and how each one was so different. Swimming in a heated private pool on a wet September afternoon was very far removed from marking out my own laps in the icy water of Highgate men’s pond, just down the road from here, on a cold March morning.