Wild swimming is such a novel trend. Twenty years ago even the idea of diving into a British lake was laughable. The heart-stopping temperatures. Slimy reeds clutching at your ankles. Disease and waste slipping into your mouth with every false breath. But now natural bodies of water crawl with eager swimmers.
My housemate Isla got so involved that she was out before sunrise four times a week, towel, goggles and swimming cap in hand. We lived an hour's drive from the nearest lake, and her job was a standard nine to five. Add in petrol costs, and you understand the commitment.
Most of the time I was on the bus before she got back. But on those rare sick days, or the odd piece of annual leave, I would walk through to the kitchen on a coffee hunt to find Isla sitting at the table with damp hair, staring into space. Her pale hands propped up her chin, and her lips moved without the faintest noise emerging.
I asked a few times if she was alright. Isla always said yes. That this was the best way to relax after a session. The others had taught her this technique.
She invited me to go swimming at least once a month. A freezing slog instead of an extra hour under a duvet before work on a November morning was not my idea of fun. But then came a warm Spring bank holiday, and I thought a quick dip was worth a punt. Plus I wanted to keep tabs on Isla. She had constant dark circles around her eyes, and new lines around her mouth.
We drove. The houses melted away into lush rolling hills. Isla was focused, but chatty. She talked about the glitter of the morning sun off the water, and the fresh mineral smell of the waves. The radio stayed off.
With no official parking by the lake, we stopped by a line of scraggy buses, and headed to the shoreline. I had to admit the scenery made me want to never look at a screen again. Misty green hills framed a liquid silver mirror that stretched to thick emerald trees on the far side. A calm breath of wind triggered gentle lapping against a sprinkling of egg sized pebbles.
Half a dozen others milled around the edge, facing this sedate paradise. At first I thought they were chatting. Their lips certainly moved. But the noise was not conversation, but splashing. Wet smacks of water on water.
A group of shapes broke through the surface.
My brain said seals. But this ignored the long hair, jet black eyes, and talons. This ignored the singing like a thousand wine glasses rubbed at once.
I joined the line of bone dry swimmers, and remembered what a new trend this was. How before we stuck our noses in, no-one may have visited here for centuries. At least not below the surface.
And at last I understood the beauty of the wilderness.
Line: Disease and waste slipping into your mouth with every false breath.
