As a hearty South African, I thought nothing of the casual challenge thrown my way on a wet Saturday afternoon when visiting friends in London. “Early Sunday morning swim in the pond at Hampstead Heath” sounded fairly innocent.
Since as early as 1860, and probably before, many hardy London folk have taken a dip before work in one of three wooded ponds on Hampstead Heath. It’s a centuries-old tradition that is wonderfully welcome when things hot up in the summer months. However, swimming was not the original intention of the ponds: the much-loved tarns of water began as a string of reservoirs, which were originally established to supply London with water.
It’s not often you can enjoy the freedom offered by the open fields in London, but this really is a fertile pocket of uncultivated land, dotted with the odd hay bale, leafy avenues and shaded woods. This rolling rural park is undoubtedly one of the loveliest areas of London. The heath’s bathing ponds, shrouded underneath sweeping willow trees and in lush undergrowth, are a delightful summer surprise, making this a lovely spot for a slightly murky swim.
The morning dawned wet and windy, even though it was supposed to be summer – it is nearly May, after all. I marched across the heath and should have noticed that apart from a crusty individual meandering around with wet hounds, no reasonable people were in evidence.
According to the blackboard, the water temperature was 4°C. Voices of caution clamoured in my head, urging retreat: “You’re 54, out of condition, you’ll die, etc.”
Luckily a more primal voice prevailed and I found myself descending the ladder off the jetty into water that smoked and felt like liquid fire: not a sane soul in sight and my friends delaying taking off their shoes; the lifeguard ensconced in his hut, door closed; a single cormorant low in the water; and me, somehow free of the ladder, head held high, describing a modest circle in the leaden water, then back up the ladder – trying desperately to conceal unseemly haste – and onto the coconut matting of the jetty practically screaming with pain.
Considerations of pride and loss of face were vanquished by the overwhelming sensations, and alleviated by the mild gloating while watching my friends going through the same ordeal.
Seriously, it’s like Bloubergstrand in mid-winter and muddy – my suggestion is to keep your feet dry when visiting London until the one weekend they call “summer”.
- Kevin is presenting a paper on fine arts education at tertiary level in South Africa at a conference organised by the Royal Academy of Arts in London. Apart from being a strategist at Flow Communications, he is a respected artist and academic.
- Read more on Kevin’s London adventures: Bake not Fry and Kevin Collins presents at the Great Grey Glorious Courthold