Hampstead, 28th October 2018

Jump straight in perhaps, both feet first, the way we always did with the water (well, that’s not strictly true, ie the hours of cormorant-ing and prancing) with no explanation of absence or promise of return? Well, perhaps some explanation. We loved this blog and knowing each swim would have to be reported pushed us on to greater depths and feats of desperation and bravado. Perhaps as the winter season approaches, it's helpful to remember that showing off for the blog is what got us through, not just through the plummeting temperatures but also through some difficult times, never reported, but there in the undercurrents of our writing. SW, KH, JJ and I, separated now as we are by distance, have all been through some pretty tricky times since we stopped blogging, but we've, quite literally, swum through it all, and a reminder of how incredibly brave we were, still are and how much we all mean to each other, can't be anything but helpful now. And - as always - do I ever do anything except to show off? I met someone at a party recently who had stumbled across the blog and asked me what had happened to it, and since then, the words have echoed around my brain as I splash through the icy wastes. We're still here. We're still swimming. We always will be.

The clocks have changed and the temperatures taken a serious plunge. An icy north wind is blasting. I’ve spent Saturday swapping over my glorious colourful summer clothes for my winter wardrobe – out of storage, dusty, mothballed and in every shade of black and grey available. It should be depressing but in fact I’m wrapping winter around me and quite looking forward to hunkering down. But by pure chance, I’ve swum every weekend for the past few, and am keen to keep this streak up as long as possible. My friend RH feels the same and as I wallowed in the glories of a Dorset sea last weekend (see above) she, a novice Winter Swimmer, stuck her courage to the sticking place and plunged into the cooling depths Kenwood Ladies Pond, her first Winter Swim alone and very brave she was too. I owe her the very same this weekend.

It’s raining when I get up, what a relief. But the sun breaks through and once decided, I am resolute and set off on the long trek for Hampstead from my new flat in South London. The journey alone means that this really isn’t going to be sustainable through the winter; the timings make it too arduous before work, so I can't get in frequently enough to make the temperatures manageable - and the commute isn’t the one of yesteryear, when SW and I would sometimes be side by side in our cars at the Crown Roundabout post swim, heaters blasting, numb feet on the gas, sand in our ears and euphoria glowing from every pore. And there’s no denying that the Ponds – even without the 90 minute commute - require a higher level of determination than the sea: lowering yourself down the ladder into the water, rather than being smashed by the waves, and all without the promise of SW’s open bar, or in this case the camaraderie of someone else to cheer you on, means you really REALLY have to want it.

As I emerge from the tube in my motley collection of jumpers and layers (garnering some odd looks – but winter swimming fashion is something I DO know, and once at the ponds I suddenly fit in like the one lost sock) and swerve around the 50 million spaniels peppering the Heath, my thoughts are of the Mascot, so much a part of this blog, and now slathering over parkin and doing her nose breaking leaps on the great beach in the sky these past 5 years. I miss her all the time. Other dogs have come into our lives since we closed the shutters on the blog, but the Mascot will always be the boon companion of those years.

I make it to the Ponds, and in through the secret gate to be welcomed with the expanse of still water and only a few bobbing bobble hats. The women here are encouraged to wear them to show up in the dim light, as well as to keep the heat in. It wouldn’t work for me as I always have to put my head under to get the full experience, although this is probably what will kill me in the end. It’s incredibly still and peaceful, a few damp ladies sipping from thermoses, a little hushed chat, and it could be a different world from the heaving masses of the July heatwave (where RH and I once bumped into KH midway through struggling into her underwear, which is the last moment you want to be greeted by even a close friend). I change as fast as I can, gritting my teeth with determination. A girl changing next to me is shuddering into her clothes and gasps out how nice it was in the water between gritted teeth, which does little to reassure me. I approach the ladder, slide in, feigning know-how. It’s brutal. Absolutely brutal. I swim from ladder to ladder with the breath knocked out of me, and a wave of pain across my skin and shoulder blades. I know I can do this, but I’m taken aback by how hard it is. I clamber out, walk round, submerge again, and by the third time of doing this I’m ok and can strike out around the winter swimming area, take stock, watch the heron take off a few feet from me, and even roll over on my back to paddle along and feel the sun on my face. I get out sooner than I feel I need to: I’m out of touch with my body, and can’t work out how long will be too long in the water (ie it will take a day to warm up), where by rights, 10 degrees (as the water is) really shouldn’t be something I can’t manage. I stand on the jetty my skin aflame, and the cold wind feeling warm. If I could do this for a few days solidly, I'd settle back into it, and know exactly how long to stay in but I know this is just impossible. It's frustrating and as I dress and regroup, I feel spaced out and detached rather than euphoric. 

The buzz of achievement keeps me warm and I prance off across the Heath for tea and soup. As always, the Pond is a glory, but wonderful as it is, it can’t match up to West Dorset. I’m hankering to get home. Fingers crossed for some storm-free weather this weekend so I can give it a shot (KH?!).