Walk and… SWIM

A wild swim makes you truly part of the landscape, says Sarah Ryan. Even when it’s chilly.

IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO regret a wild swim, I tell myself, standing at the bank of a rippling pool of silvery water, tensed in anticipation of the cold. I tell myself this almost every time, the only exceptions being those days of clinging summer heat. Those times, the appeal is obvious. Off with the shoes, off with the tee, off with the shorts and into that blessedly cold, clear water. Instantly a layer of sweat and dusty grime dissolves. Swimming languidly on the surface, surrounded by towering rock under a limitless blue sky or immersed in a flickering world of green leaves. Those days, it’s a no-brainer.

The colder days are harder. You get these all through the year, when the wind blows cold, carrying flecks of rain, or high on a hill where even snow lingers into summer. On days like this, I have to coax myself into it. In the words of mountaineer Edward Whymper: “from the beginning, think what may be the end.” Of course, where he was thinking of disaster, I am thinking of delight. The burning tingle on my skin, the rush of endorphins and the way any worries seem to disperse in the water. I will emerge from that water a bright, effervescent water sprite, no matter how bedraggled and apprehensive I might feel stepping in. And so I go in.

A walk by a river, past a tarn or around a loch is a beautiful thing. But by getting into that water I become more than an observer of the landscape. I’m a participant in it. It soothes sore feet, aching limbs and a tired soul. It’s impossible to regret a wild swim.