Each time we've met a new swimmer we've asked for a favourite or memorable swim. Dan from Gone Swimming gave us a description, which you can hear below, of his magical swim across the Menai Strait. 'Jealous' doesn't really cover it......

The first winter

A few weeks ago we headed down to the depths of South London to meet the lovely Barbara. In this short extract she talks us through overcoming one of the biggest fears for those embarking on an outdoor swim - fear of the cold.

Back in Bala

We're back in Bala with Dr. Lazarus describing the rhythm and balance of his weekly swims. He also has some pretty amazing seal stories to tell, but you'll have to wait for the full edit!

Bala Lake

Local Head Teacher Andrew Roberts gives us an insight into swimming in Bala Lake.

Vivienne Rickman Poole

Listen to Vivienne as she explains what draws her back to the water

Packing Shed

I was lucky enough to spend the weekend at the Mersea Island Packing Shed, which you can hire and spend the night on. You're own private island! Or, you and seven friends, if you are me. It was a great night for a swim, it's near Brightlingsea where I swam with Ellie a couple of weeks ago, so I was hoping there might be some bio-luminescence again, and I wasn't disappointed! It was nearly 1am when we swam, high tide, the water was as flat as a pond, and as we swam our arms and legs left glitter trails in the water. And the stars! So many amazing stars. Well, here are some pictures...



 

Swimming shoes by f-troupe. Photos by Carl Styan.

 

Clare



 

Night swimming

My friend Eleanor Farrow in a lady of lists. Lists, and pilgrimages, and projects, and doing things not by half. Whether it's reading 52 books a year, or trying every Olympic event before Rio 2016, she's up for the challenge. So when she mentioned that skinny dipping was on her bucket list, Becca and I were all over the idea. And by that I mean we were all over the idea of forcing Ellie to get naked and swim with us, despite her slight reluctance.

So last week we headed out to Mersea Island, hoping from our internet research that we'd be able to swim just before high tide, then get the hell out of there before water covered the exit route and we'd be stuck. We landed on East Mersea in glorious late summer sunshine, and headed down to the shore surrounded by dog walkers and families with impossible amounts of children.

It didn't seem perfect, apart from the dogs and the children there was at least 50ft of mud to cross, and high tide wasn't until 11.30. Even then we weren't sure if it would be the best place to swim, not knowing how deep it would actually get. Not to be easily put off we did a tour of the area, determined we would get our swim...

Despite appearances this is about 2ft deep and full of duck weed. And probably duck wee too.

Photograph Eleanor Farrow


Well, we had a nice walk, but there was little chance of a swim anytime soon. From the banks of Mersea we looked across towards Brightlingsea, with it's pretty lines of beach huts, and faded ice cream stands, and made our decision. Back in the car, around the coast, to Brightlingsea!

Photograph Eleanor Farrow



It is gorgeous in Brightlingsea, I can see why it's a popular destination for bleary eyed Londoners. Again we had a bit of a snoop around, found our spot, and went off for some fish and chips. The tension was mounting a bit now, we had a situation where we were pretty sure we'd be okay after the sun had gone down, but we were essentially going to get naked in a town. As we wolfed down chips at our spot, we jumped at every voice heard in the distance, and every jogger who came past. By proper dusk, the people faded away, the chips were gone, and it was time to swim.

This is where the story takes a slight turn for the worse. Setting up the microphone on the sea shore, as I'd done for every other swim, in the dark I missed on of the locking devices on the leg of the tripod, and it collapsed effectively throwing the recorder in the sea. This, obviously, meant the rest of the swim, and all the following conversation, was lost. Which is a pity because at one point Becca said something along the lines of 'that swim was like magic', and it sounded like she actually meant it. So my swim was tinged with stress, and disappointment at what we were missing. However, the swim itself was like magic. By this time the stars were fully out in their thousands, and bio luminesce, which neither me nor Becca had swum in before, glittered around our hands and feet. And it was warm enough to stay in and enjoy the experience, and take in the sea and the air and the company, before dripping up the shore to our clothes. I have to say I don't think I've ever seen three people dress as quickly as we did when we heard the engines of some local youths driving towards us at speed! But we'd done it, and it was amazing. And I'll never forget it.

More on the recorder as it comes in, currently it's upside down in a bag of rice.....

Barbara

I've written a little bit about how generous the swimmers we've met have been both with their time and stories. We've been given cake, showers, beds, swims, but most of all memories. Barbara was no exception, inviting us to her house for tea and a chat, with no prior knowledge other than we swim.

Having brashly already knocked at the door twenty doors down from Barbara, we were slightly more reticent when trying the doorbell, but thankfully we were greeted with a smile of someone who is expecting us. Fresh from a swim in Tooting Bec, Barbara introduced us to her beautiful cats, put on the kettle, and we got to swim talk.

It's brilliant how different all our interviewees have been. Barbara is an amazing talker, quick and decisive, we barely have to ask a question! She talks wonderfully about the community at Tooting Bec; the races where everyone starts with a handicap, to ensure everyone has a chance at success; the cake baking trophy; the vague distain towards wetsuits and occasionally those that wear them too. By the end of the interview Becca and I looking in to renting in the area, she has made it sound so appealing. Her story is one of camaraderie, of being buoyed up through difficult times, and of supporting others. The community there is something I don't think I've experienced anywhere else, certainly not in London, and by the time we've finished quizzing her an hour has flown by, and it's time to go. I'm looking forward to meeting some more Tooting Bec swimmers in the near future!

Clare

The End of Things

And so we'd reached Friday. It had been a good week, but we were probably ready to have a break, from each other, certainly from driving, and probably from meeting swimmers. Almost everyone we'd met had been fantastic, but as the week wore on, we were less so. I didn't like to approach an interview with less enthusiasm that it deserved because I was feeling a bit jaded and wanted a day off. Nevertheless, there we were on Friday morning, swimsuits under our clothes and bags under our eyes, ready for a swim in Llyn Padarn with Vivienne Rickman-Poole.

We'd passed the Llyn the night before, when we arrived in Llanberis. It's an odd little town, charming enough but it's pull to tourists far greater than it might have been were it not located at the foot of Snowdon. It's from Llanberis you catch the Snowdon Mountain Railway, the train that'll take you to the summit, should you prefer this route (and forking out £27 per person to donning your walking boots). We were there to do neither today, and drove away from the bustle of breakfasting tourists and hikers, and towards the 'Lagoons' as Vivienne had temptingly called them in her email. The gravel car park was deserted, and we stepped from the car and tested the water, waiting for Vivienne to arrive. The water was cool and crystal, and reflected the shadow of the surrounding peaks perfectly, along with the morning's high white clouds. Vivienne arrived soon after and we made our introductions, thanked her for letting us share this place, and we entered the water.

One of the questions we've asked the swimmers this week is what water they like to swim in most. Is it lake swimming, or river, sea, even lido. For me, the water that I feel most at home in, and the landscape I most adore is the sea. I know that, if by the grace of God I get to old age I'll be found in a car park or cafe in Eastbourne or Aberystwyth, crepe hands clasped, staring at the ocean as it undulates, it's rocking leading me home. So it was with some surprise that as soon as the three of us lowered ourselves into this great lake, this swim would be my favourite. Maybe it was the poignancy of the week coming to an end, or Vivienne's unspoken understanding of the project, but as we swam a slow breaststroke towards the middle of the lake - Vivienne's favourite swim here and the best aspect from which to enjoy the glorious landscape - I felt almost overcome. The cool dark water gave an exquisite welcome to us, and the sky and the mountains parted in ripples, mirrored as they were in the depths. It was wonderful.

After pausing to enjoy the landscape, we turned and swam alongside a wooded island copse, and then Vivienne led us through to the lagoons. We swam in rich, shadowy waters under a canopy of green, it was quiet and it was beautiful. I don't remember who spotted the kingfisher, but we all saw it skid above us then turn in an ultramarine flask and return over our heads, dip into the water then fly away. Sometimes we need to pause, to grasp a moment, to think 'what did I ever do to be so lucky?' This was such a moment and I am so grateful to Vivienne for taking us there.

Becca

Llyn Padarn

All this talking and driving takes it out of you, so after one of the biggest bowls of pasta I have ever seen, and a glass of red, I slept like a rock. It's a long time since I've stayed in a youth hostel, and I'd forgotten how much I enjoy it. Single beds, lights that don't work, one girl in the dorm who doesn't talk and goes to bed at 9.30, expecting complete silence from everyone else. Sadly for her she was in with Becca and I.

What I'm saying is I had great sleep, awesome sleep, and I couldn't wait to get down to the water and meet Viv. I can't remember when I came across her work, possibly when I was working at engage a little while ago, but I was captivated by her #30daysofswimming project. In an online world where a lot of the talk is of triathlon times and swimming great distances without a shark cage (impressive though that is!) this project really resonated with me. Just get in, every day for 30 days. Just get in, and have a swim. And if you are Viv take some really amazing photographs and put them on the internet to make me jealous.

We are early to the lake, and stand close to the edge, occasionally putting our hands in the water to test the temperature. When Viv arrives we talk logistics of where to leave the car keys (there is talk of the clothes of a local swimmer recently being taken and burned), decide an entry point, and launch in.

The water is colder than I expect, colder than the sea in Manorbier, and deep. 94ft deep, and black from the surface. I'm a river swimmer at heart, so this is not the kind of swim I would naturally throw myself in to. But it's glorious in the lake, looking back up to the Snowdonia mountain range I feel so lucky to be here. I have been to the area several times before, to ride the train, or drink coffee in one of the overpriced tea rooms, what have I been missing!? We swim out to the centre, admire the view, bob around chatting, then head to the lagoons that run alongside. While swimming up through them a kingfisher flies over our heads, dips into the pool, and back over us, proving beyond doubt the special character of swimming here.

This, unfortunately, is where I manage to smack my foot off a rather large rock, cutting into my toe and leaving a rather unattractive flap of skin hanging off it. Time to head to shore.

Patched up with a tissue wrapped tightly around the cut, and my sock and shoe shoved on top, we drive to a local café for coffee and warmth; though all we really get is coffee as it's too noisy inside to do the interview, so we gently shiver on the terrace. Viv is brilliant, being an artist and having done radio before she knows what we're aiming at, and she has some great stories. She is really generous with us, and sits in the cold for a hour talking all things swimming. She doesn't even mention what a wuss I am when I have to leave the table and walk ineffectually in circles trying to get rid of a wasp that has taken a fancy to my jumper. She talks about watching the seasons change from the water, waiting in the car in heavy rain for other people to leave the lakeside before getting in, in case they think she's mad, watching and photographing a freak hail storm come across from the town, and her first time swimming the length of the lake.

Viv was the last of our interviews for the week, so it was with a touch of sadness that we dropped her home. That, and leaving this part of the world, which is so beautiful, and heading back south to my version of real life. We stop off in Dolgellau, just long enough to get round the charity shops and get a parking ticket, then wind our way back to Cardiff, and eventually my Dad's house in Hay. Falling asleep I have a massive jumble of stories and swims and people and still the feeling of the water in Lake Padarn, and somewhere in there a new understanding of why I swim. We still have more people to meet, this is really just the start, I'm just hoping our editing skills live up to the stories we've collected!

Back in the car

Another long drive today, starting at 9am to get up to Bala in time to meet Gone Swimming Dan. The weather is glorious again today, and Wales looks even more beautiful than normal. Which is good, it's a four hour drive to Bala, and we're out of car snacks.

I've only seen Bala in the deep winter, so it was quite a different experience to turn up to a lake full of boats and children. I say full, Bala lake is four miles long, so full would be an exaggeration on any day of the year. It's blazing hot, the hair on my neck feels like a thick curtain holding in the heat. We can't meet Dan straight away, so go for a wander, and ask in a local café if the girl behind the counter knows of any swimmers. This question always gets an answer which always starts with a long pause, I suppose most of the time people are asking the way to the toilets, or if the sandwich comes with salad. But after said pause, she suggested her old teacher, and the local Doctor. As luck would have it it's GCSE results day, so she's pretty sure Mr Roberts will be in the school all day. YES, a purpose. We are nothing without a purpose.

Bala is small, one main high street and some side streets with lovely looking old shops. The school was at the other end of this short walk, but it still took us a good twenty minutes to get there. I don't know if it's a disconcertion with turning up and asking a complete stranger to talk to us about swimming, or of going back to school! Either way, I'm definitely dragging my feet on the walk through the carpark.

It's a funny thing, just turning up at a school. This is a pretty nice one, photos of pupils who have represented Wales in various ways adorn the walls in the reception. Still I can't shake the feeling of being in the wrong place, something I felt pretty much through my entire school career. There is absolutely no need to feel that way however, Andrew Roberts is welcoming, and engaging, and understands the project straight away. He gives us a lovely description of the tips of your fingers disappearing in the gloom of a lake, and the likelihood of your toes looking like a perch to a pike. He even then texts Dr Lazarus (another amazing name following Peter Kidney the Plumber) to find out if he might be around to meet us. It's something I'm sure I'll write about again, but the friendliness of the people we've met is really amazing.

A quick walk back through town to the lake to meet Gone Swimming Gabby, as Dan is still on his way. She comes armed with goodies for us - new swimming hats and freshly baked welsh cakes! She is also armed with her Mum and her lovely dog, Mara, though sadly neither of them are for us to take home. We sit on the shore of the lake and soon get chatting about the amazing abundance of wild swimming adventures in the area, the idea behind Gone Swimming and how it became reality, and the practicalities of baking serious amounts of Welsh Cakes (don't mess around with the dough, people!). Dan joins us after finishing a teaching session, and adds not only some sage advice for swimmers, but an amazing description of swimming the Menai Straight at night. If you want some of that yourself you'll have to get in touch with Gone Swimming!

Because of timing issues we have to run, missing out on a swim this time. But it was worth it to head back up through town (we know Bala high street fairly well now) and to the local Health Centre, to meet Dr Lazarus. Before meeting him there is another wait in an area I've never enjoyed waiting, how is it that both doctors surgery's and schools smell the same wherever you are in the UK? Being the end of the day it's just us and one other lonely soul, and once he's collected his prescription we're in.

David Lazarus (or Di Lazarus to his friends) greets us with the look of a man who, while not entirely sure about what we're up to, pretty much wants in. Having welcomed us, explored the recorder, found out who we are and what on earth we're up to, he starts talking. And it's good. We get stories of being nudged by seals and stalked by barracuda, and the everyday realities of swimming in a lake with it's own monster, Teggy.

No rest of the wicked as Dr Lazarus speeds off to go swimming with his daughter, and we head back to the car. Not for such a long drive this time, just an hour or so, and through some of the most beautiful countryside in the world. Still, I am glad to reach Llanberis and our Youth Hostel, and to have a glass of wine before a long sleep! Roll on tomorrow...!

Clare

Day 4: Manorbier to Llanberis via Bala

It's Thursday and another early start for us, this time sadly without the carrot of a plunge in the sea with Peter Kidney. We crawled out of our caravan beds to slight drizzle and packed up the car ready for our journey to Bala and a lunchtime appointment with Dan from Gone Swimming, a company he set up with his partner Gabby offering swimming adventure holidays in North Wales.

It's a long journey, and Clare and I were tired to the point of grunting instead of talking. However, as we travelled the day got gradually brighter, and we were going along a route that I have done many times before, and love. Through winding roads of West Wales where breaks in the hedgerow reveal sparking seas and on towards the long coast road that runs past Aberaeron and Aberystwyth. Last year I walked this coast, albeit in the other direction, and it was around this area that the weather finally began to show signs of improvement, and the landscape became one that I knew and understood. It's a special area, the sky swirls with red kites and it's common to see dolphins skip through the waves. Along this road we travelled, the sky becoming ever bluer and we began feeling optimistic and in holiday mood.

By the time we reached Bala the sun was blazing, reflecting hard into our eyes from the Lake. We hadn't managed to get in touch with Dan and so, having parked on the foreshore, set off armed with our newly acquired 'investigative journalist' skills to ask around the town for outdoor swimmers. One of the first people we asked was Gwenno Pugh, who didn't live in a Dylan Thomas short story, but worked in a local cafe and told us her headmaster, Mr Roberts, was an outdoor swimmer. As chance would have it, today was GCSE results day and one of the few days in August when the school would be open, and so off we set to accost Mr Roberts and try to persuade him to chat to us.

As it happens Andrew Roberts was remarkably amenable to our request of an interview, and invited us into his Headmaster's office. Andrew explained that he hadn't long been an outdoor swimmer and had approached it initially as one of the disciplines of triathlon. However, he soon discovered it's unique pleasures and spoke with some passion about ploughing up and down the Lake, his arms disappearing into the silty shimmer.

Andrew mentioned several times swimming with his friend Dai, who he suggested we meet. We had, in fact, already heard about Dai - Dr David Lazarus to give him his excellent full name- from locals, and Andrew very kindly set up an interview for us. He called the local surgery and arranged an appointment in Welsh for us. An date with a headmaster and a doctor in one day. No wonder I was biting my nails.

In the meantime Gabby from Gone Swimming had been in touch and so we walked down towards the foreshore of Lake Bala to meet her, stopping along the way in an antique shop with a good line in spaniel shaped chocolates. We met her when she bounded out of a car with her Mum and puppy following in her wake, clutching a handful of Gone Swimming paraphernalia and still warm Welsh cakes.

We retired to the shoreline and Gabby regaled us with stories of adventure and excitement in water. Soon we were joined by Dan, her boyfriend and partner in Gone Swimming. Dan had had a long day tutoring someone in sea swimming and he was tired and sticky from the salt. He was keen to have a dip in the Lake, but took time to tell us about some special swims he'd done - he made us both madly jealous with a story of a swim of the Menai Strait, from Menai Bridge over to Caernarvon, where the phosphorescence in the water was the most intense he'd ever seen. It sounded wonderful.

From the Lake we made our way for our evening appointment with Dr Lazarus, who we'd been led to believe was something of an eccentric... We sat, straight backed in the waiting room, trying to look healthy until he called us through. It would be fair to say that Dr Lazarus isn't your average doctor. For a start, his consultation room is bedecked with toy gorillas and he has a proper twinkle in his eye, also he's fun and apart from a moment of disquiet when I told him I swim in the Taff, he didn't diagnose me with anything terrible. We sat across the desk from him and he began telling us about the swims he enjoys. Once again, it was triathlon that had first attracted him to outdoor swimming, but it was wonderful to hear how being at eye level with the Lake made him feel. He spoke about the looking at the sky from the perspective of the water, and how it was available to him to swim whenever he wanted. It made me rue the absence of a four mile lake on my doorstep terribly.

Immediately on leaving the Doctors' Surgery, we were back in the car and on our way to Llanberis, where we had arranged to meet Vivienne Rickman-Poole, an artist and swimmer for a dip in Llyn Padarn on the last day of our trip. We were also staying in a Youth Hostel, which is one of my favourite things to do, the more austere the better!

The drive from Bala to Llanberis was spectacular, the sky a deep wash of pink blue, speared by mountain crags that simply don't exist in the Wales I know. The road clung to the sides of peaks and fell to wind down boulder strewn canyons, while sheep daintily picked their way along precarious outcrops I wouldn't dare. Often below us, the huge sky was mirrored in seemingly fathomless lakes - the Llyns of Snowdonia. Tomorrow, Vivienne would tell us about her mission to swim each of these. We looked forward to it.

Becca

Day 3: Manorbier Swimmers

We woke up early for a sea swim in Manorbier, in our little caravan at the end of the garden. So far, so Famous Five, apart from the hangovers we had from a bit too much late night boozing in The castle Inn. Throwing open the caravan door we could see low, grey clouds, and there was a distinct chill in the air that we weren't expecting. However, we were excited to meet the appropriately named Peter Kidney the plumber, at the Bay, for our first appointment. So far our interaction with Peter had been my favourite. After learning of him in a telephone conversation with Maggie, who we were to meet later, and a bit of online research, we'd dispatched a carefully worded email to him asking if he'd like to meet us for a swim and a chat. The reply? "nice wind up Craig". Who was Craig and why did Peter Kidney think he was in the habit of masquerading as two girls sending invitations to swim.

Another email and a phone call later has been enough to reassure Peter that we were the genuine article, and here we were, waiting for him in a small car park overlooking the Bay. The sea looked a dark form this morning, apart from the white tips of wind whipped waves. Peter arrived, skidding towards us in his van and sprang, bare chested in his trunks from it's cabin, hand outstretched in greeting. He was enthusiastic to swim and relieved to be sure that we weren't an elaborate ruse concocted by his son, the infamous Craig. As we walked down to the beach on steps hewn in the rock Peter described his regular swim - pointing out to the point, across the bay and back. Only a 20 minute splash around as, he told us, he's not much of a swimmer. His confident dive into the granite waves somewhat belied this statement and we soon lost sight of him in the large swell.

The water was cool but not cold, gritty and salty and alive feeling as it lifted and played with us, teasing with seaweed it had hidden in it's murk. The swell seems much larger when you're in it and Clare and I enjoyed it while staying safe enough near the shore. From the first sight of Peter striking out for the point with strong strokes, I resolved to work on my front crawl. So swimming is emotive and visceral, I still want to be able to plough through the waves like that!


 Peter returned in time and we all departed the sea feeling better for it's welcome. We dried off hurriedly on the beach and managed a few words together before Peter had to leave for work. One thing Peter was quite insistent on was that we should meet Eddy, someone who is a local legend in Manorbier. An 83 year old who swims year round in the Bay, his solitary traversing of the water recognisable from the shore by his distinctive double armed backstroke. We'd heard about him from others in the village too, and Clare and I were getting the distinct impression that if the project missed him out, it would be the less because of it. For me too, getting the chance to meet Eddy had a more personal importance, which I'll write about soon. We left the beach, and Peter, with the rest of the day ahead of us, determined to somehow find him.

Becca

Wednesday

It was never going to be easy to get up for 7am when you went to bed at 1am on three pints, but I can suggest no better way of curing a fuzzy head than meeting a plumber named Kidney for a swim. I'm not sure what kind of a sight we must have made, well I can actually - dishevelled - but we were rightly cut no slack.

Peter has been swimming in Manorbier for years, and he does the same swim daily at 7.30a.m and p.m, most of the year. He swims out to the point, across the bay, and back in, taking around 20 minutes. He did ask if we would like to join him, but there was no way we would have kept up. Although he denied it several times, Peter is a very strong swimmer, and frankly made us look pretty amateur! We just about had time to get in past the cresting waves before he had disappeared in the swell. We bobbed about, feeling less and less like the serious swimmers we had possibly made ourselves out to be...

It was a great swim though, seaweed got caught around our legs as we were lifted and dumped by the swell, and the sky was resolutely grey above us. We swam and chatted and swam, and then I began to wonder where Peter might be, as the cold started nearing my spine. We headed in, helped along by the waves, and shortly after became aware of the occasional splash reaching out of the sea as he approached.

 

After some posing in the surf for the camera (Peter not us) and a quick chat, it was back to the car, with a promise to meet up in the pub in a bit. For reasons best known to Becca's phone that didn't happen in the end, so sadly all we have of Peter is this swim. And the secret to best new hangover cure.

The rest of the morning was spent eating bacon sandwiches, catching up with emails, wishing we lived in Anglea's caravan, and discussing squatters rights if it should come to push and shove with the Elliot family. There are, after all, more of them than us, and apparently Angela's step mum has a liking for the caravan as well.

Maggie was our next port of call. She came recommended by Angela, and although she seemed a little apprehensive about meeting us (and who wouldn't be?), we found ourselves drinking tea around a large, friendly wooden table, surrounded by Maggie, her mum and dad, sister, niece and daughter. Not used to interviewing so many people at once we weren't sure where to start, but as the conversation got going we were able to take a bit of a back seat and allow it to cross generations, as we were offered journeys through the swimming and the sea. Maggies daughter is a life guard in the area, covering such daunting events as the Saundersfoot New Years dip, where 2000 people in fancy dress run headlong into the sea. Maggie's Dad learned to swim in the river, his first proper swimming costume a hand me down from his Dad, (an old style knitted one, with huge knots at the shoulder to keep it up). Before we knew it we'd taken up an hour and eaten most of the cake, and left with the feeling we'd only really scratched the surface with this family of swimmers.

There is someone missing so far from my writing, I think Becca may have talked about him elsewhere. He's a man called Eddy, who kind of started this whole thing off really. Becca will explain why, but not only did we really want to me meet him, everyone we had met so far told us we HAD to meet him. We had even been given directions to his house when we'd failed to contact him in any other form. So, feeling very nervous, very apprehensive (who just goes and knocks on people's door these days!?) and slightly sick we stood on his driveway, trying to push each other out in front. I won't say too much because Becca is going to write about him, suffice to say he's awesome...

Clare

Drive

An awful lot of today was spent on the road. Firstly from Hay on Wye - Merthyr, where we met Becca's octogenarian aunt, who told us stories of learning to swim in the river years before wild swimming was invented. From here we headed up to the library to research some pictures of old Merthyr, to try and visualise the old iron works cooling pools utilised by the public as swimming holes. Nothing as yet, but a friendly man called Andy is on the case for us!

Next we headed towards Tenby to meet up with some more swimmers, who found the project through the Wild Swim facebook. After half an hour of standing on a road bridge, waiting for Becca's Dad to appear along the A465 with the walking boots she had left by the sofa 40 minutes earlier, we were late. Or at least no longer on time, which I think is slightly better?!



Not to worry, Carl and Kate were staying seconds from the beach, and by the time we arrived Tenby was flooded with glorious sunshine, and we were straight in the water. Having spent the last few weeks thinking constantly about swimming, but without the possibility of getting any, this was a total joy. The water was...amazing. Amazing. Probably a touch too warm for the more hardened outdoor swimmers, but perfect for a bob around and a chat. And did I mention it was amazing?

Afterwards we were treated to a shower, tea, and cake, and an hours chat on all things swimming. Both Carl and Kate have a huge amount of experience, and it was great to talk to people so passionate about outdoor swimming. They swim regularly at Tooting Bec, and if you join the club you might also get to sample some of Kate's culinary skills (sponge with fresh cream and cherry filling, delicious!). Or you will find them in the water in and around Tenby for the next week and a half. Go and say hi, they are generous with their time and their stories.

So on to Manorbier to find our caravan for the night. We headed to the local pub in the hope of harassing some people into talking swimming with us, but ended up drinking three pints of cider and rolling in to bed with six hours sleep ahead of us before our next swim. Manorbier bay at 7.30am, really looking forward to this one!

Clare

Day 2: TENBY, TENBY, TENBY

Today began with a roll out of bed, thud to the floor and bleary dash to the stables to see if the fledgling swallows had made it out of the nest. Not quite. Here they are.

Visiting Hay is always a pleasure. It's popping broad beans to eat raw in the garden with a glass of wine. It's barbecuing halloumi in the garden on an old fire grate. It's waiting patiently for the greater spotted woodpeckers who visit daily to make their appearance. In short, it's hard to leave, but leave we did, to Merthyr, home, and a first visit to my great aunt Marion. Marion lives alone in Cefn Coed, almost on the part of the Taff Trail which sweeps over the river on a grand curved viaduct. Marion has lived in Cefn Coed her whole life, and it was in pools under that viaduct that she described swimming as a girl - the shallower pools were for the girls, the more daring swims the reserve of the boys who would also plunge into the water from the branches of trees. We asked her if her parents - non swimmers - minded her swimming, but 'no, well they didn't know'. Marion taught herself to swim and described it well, 'if you want to swim, well, you try and try and try, and eventually you pick your feet up off the floor and you're swimming'. Quite!
After Marion's (and a promise to her that we'd return later with the homemade fudge I'd promised but that I'd left sweating in the car boot) we went to my parents, were mildly assaulted by their staffie Charlie, had lunch and then went on to Dowlais library, to try to do some research on swimming spots in Merthyr. Specifically the ones my Dad remembers my grandfather taking him to. No success as yet, although I have been sent this old image from Alan George's Old Merthyr Tydfil website.

It's of a place that I swam recently with a friend, called the Blue Pool. It's an area which sadly, through a combination of changing fashions in swimming and rumours of danger, barely sees a swimmer now, but in it's day, in summer, was flooded with visitors, the air filled with the shrieks of people braving the icy mountain run off of the river to swim and play. It's still a glorious place to swim, once you've clambered down to it, the water fresh and clear and cold, with plenty of places to explore.
And so on to Tenby, to the place I most associate with childhood holidays, buckets and spades, 2p slot machines, soft sticks of rock and most of all glorious, gorgeous, golden beaches. After forcing Clare to partake in the Thomas family tradition of chanting "Tenby Tenby Tenby" on first site of the sea, we parked and unfurled our cramped legs on the promenade over looking North Beach (everyone else was ignoring the double yellows so why not us?).  Walking down the steep stone steps to the beach, we looked out for Carl and Kate, who had contacted us through facebook and generously agreed to share an evening of their holiday with us. They were staying in an apartment virtually on the beach and our first sight of them was of Kate waving from their window above us, already in her swimsuit. We changed quickly and got into the water, Carl and Kate by far the more competent swimmers and looking the part in their matching yellow swimming caps. We bobbed around in the waters around Goscar Rock in the warmth of the evening sun, and then post swim were invited for cake and tea (an outdoor swimming tradition, especially in winter. Kate is well known for her cakes at her local Tooting Bec lido).
Both Kate and Carl had some fantastic stories about the outdoor swimming that they've done. They didn't meet through swimming, Carl is an extremely experienced swimmer whose exploits are too many to detail here, but do take a look at his blog (http://musingsofanaquaticape.wordpress.com) and I'm looking forward to reliving them on the recording we made. Anyway, in order to spend more time with Carl, Kate became a swimmer too, and they both look very well on it indeed. It was lovely to meet them and listen to swimmers of such passion, experience and wisdom.
Leaving Tenby, temporarily, we moved on to Manorbier - a small village just West, where we were staying for the night in, to my pure joy, a tiny caravan at the bottom Clare's friend Angela's garden.

Angela has been busy scouring the village for outdoor swimmers for us - some of whom we'll speak to tomorrow, and one, Eddy, that I'm really hoping that we meet, as for me he's a key person to this project. I'll tell you more tomorrow.

Becca

Just another normal day

Or not. For a start I had fudge for breakfast. You can always tell when Rebecca Thomas is around, wine for dinner and fudge for breakfast. We had originally been aiming to leave London at 8.30am, which given that we finally rolled at 11.30 seemed unlikely looking back on it. We by no means had a wasted morning though, flasks of tea brewed while we made lists and checked them twice (well I did, having left home a few days prior Becca had no need of one) and deliberated over how many towels to take. General public, how many towels should one take for a week of swimming? I’ve gone with one large and two small, I’m worried it isn’t enough…

London grew smaller as the countryside grew bigger, and after a lengthy 5 hours of heart.fm we hit Wales. I won’t go into the long and the short of it, but somehow before our first interview we had to eat two dinners. Without letting on that was what we were doing. I won’t pretend it was fine, it wasn’t, and in future I’ll be finding out precisely who is eating what and when before I leave the house.

Sheila Leighton was first on our list. A good friend of my Dad’s, she has lived by the river Wye all of her life, and never once swum in it. She in fact has insisted on having two life jackets on a recent cruise - should the ship go down - leaving my Dad jacketless and to his own devices. The interview was short and sweet, there isn’t a huge amount to say to two girls looking for swimming secrets if you aren’t a swimmer, but she had a good stab at explaining the perceived dangers of outdoor swimming. Hopefully it will make a good bridge between segments, and she has a lovely voice.

The next meeting we were both a little unsure about. It was with a lady who’s reputation (on trip advisor) precedes her, and her reputation locally for that matter. I think it’s fair to say she is on the eccentric side of modern life, though I guess it depends what you think of as modern life. ANYWAY, Becca had spoken to her on the phone and she seemed pretty approachable, so we headed off to meet her.

 I don’t know if you have been to the Hay on Wye area, but it’s one of those places were there are a lot of “hippies”. Hippies with money. Hippies who wash their hair. Hippies who baptise themselves in a river at the height of summer, but would baulk at the idea of going in during a wet Wednesday afternoon. Barbara isn’t that kind of person. She is the kind of person who’s time and love is literally poured into the river. She had been known to remove children from their parents for the afternoon in order to have them experience the water the way she does. And to tape polystyrene to her shins to stave off bruises from an unknown set of rapids. She is wild and uncompromising and uttery bonkers. If you consider it a problem if your waitress is wearing no shoes and wanders through the room carrying a frying pan you should stay away from this pub. If you dream of rivers and swimming and joy and real ale this is probably your place. She will try and get you to swim naked at the full moon, you have been warned.

Clare

Wales and the West, Day 1. London to Hay on Wye

Today, to start our journey Clare and I travelled from London to Hay on Wye. In Clare’s garden at Cusop we met with Sheila, a friend of Clare’s Dad who grew up beside the Wye but never swam in it.  She learned to swim as an adult in the local pool. It was interesting to listen to the reasons why she had never swum in the river – and how the oral tradition that she had been brought up with, particularly from her Mum, was that the river was unsafe – it was dirty from agriculture and it was full of whirlypools, something  she told us that city people didn’t understand. In lengthening shadows we chatted to her alongside Clare’s Dad, Tony, who swam in the river very often as a child, and who had been brought up to believe that the river was safe and generally clean. Sheila remembers walking alongside the river and watching the salmon jump (something not now seen in the Wye with any frequency at least) but she never ventured in. It’s became more understandable that Sheila’s Mum had some reluctance in encouraging her children into water when she told us that her own mother had drowned. This was something we didn’t press her on.

Later we were really lucky to meet up with Barbara Lewthwaite, who runs the Holly Bush Inn near Hay and agreed to have a chat with us after we called her this afternoon. Barbara swims at least twice daily in the Wye - which runs at the foot of the grounds of her pub – and is the sole reason she decided to make her home there. As well as swimming near constantly herself, with plans to swim the length of the river soon for charity, Barbara is an amazing exponent for outdoor swimming as a whole. She told us about how just today she had taken several groups of people to the river and introduced them safely to outdoor swimming. She took a honeymooning couple to a private spot for skinny dipping and a family of wild swimming virgins to a safe space where they could enjoy the water safely. She told us about watching this family take their first river swim, about how they were thrilled by the freedom of the fresh water and of just getting in without care. Her absolute passion for swimming was clear, and when she took us to her beach of shingle and stone at the bottom of her garden, where the water flowed lazily and the evening’s first bats were appearing, it was difficult not to just throw ourselves in. We didn’t, but we have arranged to return for a full moon swim there with Barbara as soon as we can.

Becca
 

Start the week

We're just off on our mini tour, Monday - Friday working our way up from South to North Wales. We've packed a terrifying amount of car sweets, a flask, and 16 rechargeable batteries for the sound recorder. See under the 'tour' tab for where we'll be and when, and come and say hi if you are in the area!

Clare

My Grandfather

I didn’t meet my paternal grandfather. He died when my Dad was seven years old and so I missed him by 27 years. Of course I have thought about him often, what I would have called him – I called my maternal grandfather Bampa – or what kind of relationship we would have had. I think that we would have been friends. Not because I’m his granddaughter and that’s what I’d hope, but because as I have got older I have realised that parts of me, things that I believe to be fundamental to who I am, are echoed in the recollections others, especially my Dad have of him.

Years ago my father gave me the gift of a book called Martin Eden, by Jack London. I believe that the copy was my grandfather’s. It’s the story, thought to be semi autobiographical of a struggling, aspiring writer. It’s a story of love, melancholia and of the sea. I must have been around 14 when I first read it and as all teenagers are, I was inclined to romance and dolour and it caught my heart. I won’t say more about the plot, but its final pages are ones that I’ve never forgotten. It was my grandfather’s favourite book too.

I’ve learned other things about him. He was a voracious outdoor swimmer who would visit Barry Island on bus trips with his family, leaving my gran and Dad and aunts on the sand to swim for what seemed to them like hours, out of view. I’ve always been the one to swim out further, to stay in longer, reluctant to return to the shore. In that way, I take after him.

A long time ago, my Dad told me a story about him and his Dad. About how they took a bus trip from home, Merthyr, towards Brecon, and stopping around Llwyn Onn Reservoir walked until they reached a place my grandfather knew, a warm spring, where they swam. I’ve asked many people about this place, if they know of it or have heard of it. Most haven’t but a few have. Nobody seems to know where it is, or even if it still exists. I’ve looked for it several times, after my father has searched his memory for details of a trip over half a century ago, but never found it. Maybe it’s gone. But maybe it’s still there. I don’t know yet and maybe I never will.  If my grandfather was still around he’d be able to take me, or tell me where to go, or if my Dad had been taken there when he was older he'd remember, but he didn’t have the chance.

Clare and I have made some recordings of my Dad speaking about swimming with his Dad. There’s one on this blog of us talking to both my parents and there’s another recording that we made with just my Dad which we haven't published yet. I’m going to use this space in the coming weeks and months to write more about my grandfather as I learn more about him, and maybe we’ll even find the warm spring. If we do, I'll tell you about it. 

That warm spring, that for now is lost, is one reason why the project Clare and I are working on is important to me. There’s so much knowledge and experience and pleasure to be shared amongst us, so much good stuff, and I think we need to preserve it. An archive of stories of places where people swim, and of why those experiences are important, seems like a good way of doing something, and of keeping such things safe.

                                                                               Becca 
Ken Thomas