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- Herausgeber: Daunt Books
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Tucked away along a shady path towards the north-east edge of Hampstead Heath is a sign: Women Only. This is the Kenwood Ladies' Bathing Pond. Floating in the Pond's silky waters, hidden by a canopy of trees, it's easy to forget that you are in the middle of London. On a hot day, thousands of swimmers from eight to eighty-plus can be found waiting to take a dip before sunbathing in the adjoining meadow. As summer turns to autumn and then winter, the Pond is still visited by a large number of hardy regulars in high-vis hats, many of whom have been swimming here for decades. In these essays we see the Pond from the perspectives of writers who have swum there. Esther Freud describes the life-affirming sensation of swimming through the seasons; Lou Stoppard pays tribute to the winter swimmers who break the ice; Margaret Drabble reflects on the golden Hampstead days of her youth; Sharlene Teo visits for the first time; and Nell Frizzell shares the view from her yellow lifeguard's canoe. Combining personal reminiscence with reflections on the history of the place over the years and through the changing seasons,At the Pond captures fourteen contemporary writers' impressions of this unique place.
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‘The Ladies’ Pond has truly been one of the wonders of my life. Slipping into its waters is slipping into bliss.’ Deborah Moggach, ‘Nothing Much Except Joy’
‘I loved to lower myself down the rungs of the ladder and launch myself into the silky waters of the Pond. There was something magical about the unplumbed depths, the moorhens, the dragonflies, the waterlilies, the willows, the floating rings and rafts.’ Margaret Drabble, ‘Out of Time’
At the Pond
Swimming at the Hampstead Ladies’ Pond
DAUNT BOOKS
Contents
A Note on the Pond
The Kenwood Ladies’ Pond on Hampstead Heath is one of the most magical places in London. Its sequestered location and abundant wildlife – from dragonflies, moorhens and kingfishers above the water’s surface, to swan mussels, roach and carp beneath – make it a peaceful wilderness in an otherwise urban landscape.
It’s also a place with a strong literary heritage. If you read closely, references to the Pond are peppered throughout novels, non-fiction and poetry. Going to the Pond can be a rite of passage; whenever you discover it, it is a place that inspires and lingers in the memory.
The ponds on Hampstead Heath are fed by natural springs originating from the River Fleet which runs subterraneously through the city. The series of ponds known as the Highgate chain – which include the Kenwood Ladies’ Pond and the Highgate Men’s Pond – were established in the late seventeenth century as freshwater reservoirs by the Hampstead Water Company. The Ladies’ Pond was officially opened to the public for swimming in 1925, though it is reported to have been used unofficially for bathing long before that.
Winter
Cold Shocks and Mud Beards
ESTHER FREUD
Aged sixteen, and newly moved to London, I had no idea that Hampstead Heath existed – it was nightclubs, theatres, the smoking carriages on the tube that most excited me – but all the same I couldn’t pretend to be unmoved by such a tract of nature. The trees, hills and wildflowers were so much more luxurious than the neat fields and golf courses of East Sussex, and then, to discover, hidden down a leafy lane, behind a scrub of saplings, a secluded lake for the use of women only. Nomen, children, radios, dogs – the sign on the gate warned, and as I walked down the path beside the sloping meadow, and stood on the wooden deck above the mud brown pond, I had the unusual sense that I was exquisitely lucky to be female.
There are numerous ponds on Hampstead Heath, as many as thirty, but only three are reserved for swimming – a mixed, a men’s and the Kenwood Ladies’ Pond, which was officially opened in 1925, although women had been using it for centuries. There used to be night swimming by candlelight (now people make use of the dark to climb over the fence), and Katharine Hepburn once visited and brought a tin of biscuits for the lifeguards to have with their tea. Today there is a group of year-round swimmers who come daily, through hail or frost and dip themselves into the water. There are long winter months when it is only them. And then, at the height of summer, as many as two thousand women, of every shape and size, all classes, all ages, from across London, across the country, even from abroad, arrive to swim and sunbathe on the meadow. And the meadow is as important as the pond itself. It is a magical place, entirely private – topless sunbathing has been allowed since 1976 – and once you lie back on your towel all you can see are trees and sky. There is so much space here. So much peace. And above the birdsong the only sound is the hum of chat and laughter and the occasional scream of someone new braving the cold. You can lie in this meadow until dusk, because you’ve cold shocks and mud beards paid your dues, you’ve already immersed yourself in the deep, dark lake, and for now at least you don’t have to go in again.
For many years I was a fair-weather swimmer, circling the pond just once on the sunniest of days, congratulating myself as I climbed out. But then, one autumn, after a difficult summer, when increasingly, a swim was the only thing that raised my spirits, I decided to keep going. I arrived, fragile and fearful, on a cold, damp Sunday morning, early, to meet a friend who’d swum through the previous year, and ignoring the temperature scrawled on the board (14°C) I took courage and followed her down the ladder. It’s so cold! My body screamed as I struck out for the far end, anxious thoughts pursuing me, self-pity and resentment dogging my every stroke. Why am I even doing this? Whatif I have a heart attack and die? Two ducks glided by, and a heron, wise and faintly disapproving, watched me from the bank. I dipped my head under, and just like that, the mud silk of the water soothed me, released me, and when I burst up, I felt, for a moment, happy.
The next Sunday was already easier. It was a bright, crisp day and cheered by my courage in returning, I swam round twice and when I came out my body was blazing. I stood in the sunshine and chatted excitably, no need even for a towel, but within ten minutes I began to shake. The cold was like a burn: it had bedded so deep inside me I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength to drag my clothes on, heave my arms into my coat. Speechless, I found my way back to the car, drove the mercifully short distance home and stood in the shower until I was warm. Later I confided in my swimming friend, and she told me I should have asked for a hug. Body heat is the best cure for hypothermia. And she advised me to invest in neoprene gloves and socks. The following week we met on the other side of the Heath and walked fast before we swam. Already warm, it was easier to get in, and harder to get out, and afterwards, although I was still shockingly cold, I arrived home tingling and ravenous, for food, for fun.
By mid-October half the pond was cordoned off. The lifeguards issued warnings. This is proper winterswimming now. You need to come twice a week at least toacclimatise to the temperature as it plummets. Don’t stay intoo long. Enjoy. And don’t forget to breathe. By now most of the women were wearing bobble hats, fluorescent pink and yellow, the better to be seen in the early morning murk. But I resisted, savouring the shock of bliss as I cleared my head with a dip under the water. It released my worries. Put me in the moment. And the moment, just for a moment, was good.
On the winter equinox there was a party. Breakfast was provided, croissants, berries and tea, and the pond was hung with lanterns. As many as fifty women cold shocks and mud beards climbed down the ladders, struck out across the silvery lake as the sun rose above the trees. By now I was familiar with the changing room regulars – mothers who managed a quick dip after dropping off their children, women on their way to work, octogenarians who revolved in their own circle. ‘See you tomorrow,’ they waved merrily as they bundled off into their day. I loved being surrounded by so many women, all naked, all happy to be so as they jostled for space. It was ridiculous and oddly sexy. And a whole new etiquette had to be mastered in order to greet an acquaintance wearing only a neoprene sock.
That winter, on holiday on the Suffolk coast, I joined the Christmas Day swim. For years I’d marvelled at the insanity of anyone prepared to strip off in public in December, but this year I threw myself into the waves. By the time I came out I’d been swept so far from my starting point by the current, I had to search, my skin scorched red, through the crowd to find my clothes. But nothing mattered. I was insulated. Deep inside.
And then, in the New Year, it snowed. Now what? I texted. Surely we can stay in bed today? But I was a year-round swimmer and there was no backing down. The pond was almost entirely frozen over. There was one narrow lane where the lifeguards had broken up the ice with an oar, and there were three bobble-hatted women doing lengths. I climbed down the ladder and felt the cold cut up between my legs. It flayed my arms, cracked my skull. ‘I feel good,’ I used my breath to sing a snatch of James Brown, and as I plunged under I felt the water bubble round me, as refreshing as champagne.
Swimming in cold water, I read afterwards in an article pinned to the changing room wall, raises yourwhite blood cell count and your libido. The best way to getwarm is to put your wrists in hot water. I’d come to love this changing room. A small fuggy outhouse with one hot shower and a tap, several plastic basins, rubber mats and wall hooks, it was due to be dismantled during my first winter to make room for a larger, smarter version, and while the work was being carried out the Ladies’ Pond was to close. Here was my chance to stop my swimming challenge and restart in the spring (I’d got to February after all) but the Ladies’ Pond was reallocated to the Mixed Pond, and on the weekends we were given access to the Men’s. I’d never thought much of the other ponds. I was utterly loyal to my own, and had taken a condescending approach. You’ve no idea, I’d often thought as I walked past. But I found myself delighted by the leafy safety of the Mixed, and the wide expanse of the Men’s, with no changing room or shower, was Spartan and surprisingly jolly. ‘Everything today will be easier after this,’ I said one particularly bracing morning. And a man waiting by the diving board grinned. ‘Everything in life.’
