My Waterlog
Last week, I was driving around Scotland, mostly in the drizzle. My boyfriend and I went swimming everyday, rain or shine. Since we’ve moved to Yorkshire and had no social life to speak of, we’ve gotten into wild swimming. It feels like everyone has, lately, but there really is nothing as grounding as immersing yourself in water. I’ve been reading Roger Deakin’s classic book, Waterlog, in which he attempts to figuratively and literally swim across the UK. He starts in the Scilly Isles, off the shores of Cornwall, and swims through rivers, ponds, and seas across the south of England and up into Wales, Yorkshire, and briefly Scotland. As he goes, he learns about the histories of the waterways he enters, especially the ways in which pollution and development has impacted them. It’s a very special book, and true ode to one man’s passion - getting in the water.
Inspired by Roger, I logged my own swims last week.
25 July, Loch Ard, Kinlochard
I hadn’t checked the weather for our travel day, because I figured we would just be driving all day so it wouldn’t matter. But when we stopped for lunch near Loch Lomond, there was barely a cloud in the sky and it was a sweaty, steamy day. We googled “swimming near Loch Lomond” because we thought that actual Loch Lomond would be too crowded on a day that nice, and drove to the first loch on the list. As we drove around it, there were people on every gravelly little suggestion of a beach, splashing, tanning, wading. It was the first loch I’d ever seen, and let me tell you, they’re very nice. We parked, changed in the car, and trotted toward the water at speed. I waded in, expecting the usual brisk shock of cold water. But the water wasn’t just warm - it was hot. It felt like bathwater. I wondered if something was wrong. We kept wading, and I felt it get a little cooler around my toes as I got deeper. But even once we were out in the deep blue middle, far from any shore, the water was deliciously warm. I remembered the wonderful way lakes have layers of temperature, so my toes brushed the icy depths while my shoulders were toasty as I tread water. We stayed in the water, just floating, for 40 minutes, and when we got out we said that the whole holiday would be worth it just for that swim.
26 July, Glen Etive
Someone on Instagram posted a picture of themselves here, so I decided we should go without doing any further research. The scenery was so beautiful that I had a slight headache, like I was on an amusement park ride and couldn’t tell what was real or get a good grip on distance and perspective. Could the hills really be that green? Were they really right there, next to us? We stopped next to a deserted little waterfall and swam through the little pools around it. The water was warm again - not as warm as the loch, but still warmer than anything we’d had in Yorkshire. It was so clear that I opened my eyes underwater and drifted around among the boulders. When we were finally tired of it, we got back in the car and drove back towards the main road. As we went, I spotted the cliffs that I thought I’d seen in the original Instagram post. We stopped again, and yet again I literally ran towards the water. A woman laughed as I went by and said she agreed, it was worth running for. She told us that she’d never seen the river levels so low or the water so warm, and that it was truly like paradise. There was a deep channel between the cliffs that we swam up and down, and we scrambled up the cliffs and jumped into the deep water. It looked like New Zealand, or Narnia. It was like a playground. When we finally left, I was breathless and exhausted, drunk on the sun and water.
27 July, Isle of Skye, near Loch Brittle
Our fellow wild swimming friends told us that there were some rock pools that looked just like the famous (and crowded) Fairy Pools, if you just carried on down the road a bit further and hiked out around Loch Brittle about a mile. We set off in deep mist, and felt very savvy as we cruised past the rammed car park for the Fairy Pools. We walked out along the cliffs beside the loch, towards the sea, and turned back on ourselves when we reached the end of the path. As we approached the pools, it started to properly rain, so we changed quickly and hid our clothes up against the side of the hill. There was a deep pool fed by a waterfall about as tall as I am, and then the stream carried on down into the loch and out to sea below it. This was really cold water, leaving us gasping as we waded in. But it was fresh and revitalizing, and crystal clear. I swam up under the waterfall and let it pound on my head, clearing my mind completely. When we got out, a bit shivery this time, we were swarmed by midges. I gave up trying to change behind a towel and just stripped and pulled on dry clothes as fast as I could, hoping no walkers would come by and, luckily, no one did.
28 July, Glen Lyon
We drove a long way from Skye to our woodsy little Airbnb in Glen Lyon, near Aberfeldy, and by the time we got there I was grumpy and hangry and unsettled. I hadn’t really done anything besides sit in the car all day, so I put on my swimsuit and walked through the rain to the river Lyon at the bottom of the glen. The water was jet black and I couldn’t see the bottom, which made me a little nervous. But I waded in and eased into the deep water, watching to make sure I didn’t drift into any rocks and bruise a shin. Mountains rose up sharply on either side of the river, and the clouds were low and thick around us. The river was wide and rushing just above the deep pool we swam in, and the sounds of the water surrounded me completely. I felt my body relax and cool off in the water that was, again, icy cold. When I got out, I was still hungry, but I felt like I had found firm footing again. My thoughts were no longer a jumble and I felt very alive.
29 July, Glen Lyon
We went down to the river again after hiking up Carn Gorm, one of the “hills” (mountains) next to the river. We could see it snaking along through the valley from high above as we walked, and I looked forward to plunging in the whole way up, and the whole way down. I think of myself as a pretty active person, but there is nothing like climbing a mountain to remind you that actually, walking around flat fields only does so much for one’s fitness. The river was cold and misty and beautiful again, though the inky blackness of the water still unsettled me a bit.
30 July, North Sea, St. Andrews
Paddy went to the University of St. Andrews, but he claims that he never “properly” swam in the sea at West Sands, which is the beach where they filmed the famous beach running scene from Chariots of Fire. We really psyched ourselves up for it, because everyone else on the beach was in a full wetsuit. We had our little neoprene swimming socks, which I think definitely make a difference, but still, it was the North Sea. We took a long running start to warm up and get through the breaking waves, but as soon as we hit the water, we both realized we must be genuine wild swimmers now because it felt perfectly pleasant. Chilly, but hardly cold at all. It was the first time I’d been in the sea since last summer, and I revelled in the buoyancy of the salt and the swell of the waves. The town of St. Andrews looks very picturesque up on the cliffs next to the beach, and the sand stretches as far as you can see in the other direction. There’s nothing quite so calming as floating in the sea and looking straight out across the uninterrupted vastness of the water to the place where it meets the sky. We floated about for a while, and then trudged back up the beach. I was hoping for some shocked looks from the walkers on the beach, but no one seemed at all interested. I don’t think we were as impressive as we thought.
Some Other Things I’m Thinking About
Anne Helen Petersen’s 3-part examination of terminal Master’s programs in the US, which takes a hard and important look at the way prestigious universities cash in on overpromising futures in academia to recent grads.
This essay by Nikki Darling about the way growing up in the last generation with an analog childhood meant she had empty afternoons that she was free to fill with reading. I’m at least 10 years younger than her, but I remember those empty afternoons, too, and feel so grateful for them.
An interesting discussion about the difference between copyright infringement and taking inspiration from your peers in the music industry, especially on something as basic as the “teen girl aesthetic.” Can someone own that?
Men who wear kilts. Just generally thinking about it.