An ode to the pond
It’s March 2022 at the Highgate Men’s Pond. I’ve arrived alone for once, just before 8am, fancying a psychotically cold dip before work to blow out the cobwebs of a long, anxious week.
I walk into the outdoor cattle pen that is the men’s changing area, and find it’s just me and a slightly scruffy septuagenarian with bright, curious eyes changing out of his bathers into a tweed suit.
We nod a polite greeting - such being the custom of mutual respect among masochists - before I de-robe and head into the water.
A bone chilling few minutes later, I’m shivering myself warm in a bundle of layers following a brief liaison with the sub 10 degree pond.
Out of nowhere, my sole companion turns to me, unprompted, and asks, “do you think the Donbas will be the breaching region of Ukraine?”
I fumble out a reply about that sounding quite probable, as put aback by the context of the asking as I am by the question. We chat briefly, his intellect matching his bright eyes, before parting ways all before 8.15am. As I leave the ponds, I laugh audibly to myself - there are few other places in London where such interactions happen so naturally.
In fact, nothing better sums up the uniquely bizarre and joyous place that is the men’s pond on London’s Hampstead Heath. Opened in 1893 as a typically late-Victorian swing at public health via collective suffering, this boggy bucket to the east side of London’s most magical green space has played a role in the city’s cultural consciousness ever since.
Like an eccentric uncle one doesn’t see often, it pops up in conversation sporadically, but is never forgotten for long - enthralling everyone from the inimitable George Smiley, to Holinghurst’s sexually curious Nick Guest, to the patron saint of centrist dads, Alistair Campbell. We even saw Harry Styles there once.
I’ve been lucky enough to be going regularly for five years now, dropping in (nearly) every Friday morning with two friends who also fancied sending their nervous systems into blind panic before work once a week. And honestly it has become something of a religion. There are few parts of my week I enjoy more. The proximity to said friends forms an unusual vein of consistency in the otherwise scattered body of London life, and our little trio firmly feels part of a broader ecosystem - we nod to other regulars, crack the occasional gag (generally temperature related), or have a brief chat in the cafe afterwards. The idea that a sense of community could be considered a luxury is a damning indictment on our fragmented modern existence, but I appreciate it nonetheless.
The demographic is as one would expect of such a curious past time - mostly middle aged, middle class, and decidedly urban. Campbell is in many ways the archetype. Our main observations over the years have been that most of the crowd look like some cross between a high court judge, Guardian columnist and card holding CAMRA member. But this is the modal profile - the reality is much more colourful and diverse, with other younger groups like our own, Lone Ranger types who often look like they’re battling some inner demon, or the veritable army of sculpted gay men who descend for the summer months before suddenly disappearing in September just as miraculously as they arrived.
Our 8.30am bacon sandwich and coffee check in post swim has become one of my first ports of call for emotional support and trip planning, but also for noting the passing of life with a seasonally changing backdrop. It is rare to have such a consistent social fixture that not only allows a brief pause to reflect on the week passed, but that allows the observation of not just time but nature. Watching winter turn to spring, to summer and back again through the temperature of the water and the condition of the trees has become an unexpected delight. Our first ever trip was January 6th (3.6 degree water), satisfying for its resolution-adjacent timing, bleak midwinter-ness, and for the absurdly icy initiation we undertook, never to look back. Once you’ve faced this, very little else can phase you through the rest of the year.
The winter to spring season is by far my favourite - giving me something to look forward to in the dark months, but also serving as a reminder that each week the water will be just that little bit warmer. The health benefits are relatively well known, but more than that this ritual is almost like a way to externalise my gradual emergence from hibernation, slowly warming myself up for spring just as the water warms with me.
I also love the winter for the quiet of the pond, the intensity of the experience, and the (quietly smug) acknowledgement amongst the hardy regulars that we’re the real nutters. As an observer in the 2018 documentary on the ponds put it - “sub 12 degrees is cold. Sub 6 is fucking cold”, the evident glee on his face telling you everything you need to know about his preferences. By July and 20+ degree water, it’s a different crowd - drop ins, tourists and (god forbid) sunbathers - demographics I hold no grudge against but love just that little bit less than the Donbas-pondering off season wallowers.
There is also a particularly hilarious day - well, two days - each year, when the women let the men into their segregated ponds and vice versa. Our last visit up the hill could only be described as akin to the experience of an all boys school on a trip to their local sister institution. The men arrived boisterous but equally sheepish, showing off to mask feeling out of place, and sizing the joint for comparison. Like a Women’s Institute meeting in a small village, cakes were laid out, decorations hung, and matronly middle aged English women poured tea and gave stern glances at the men diving clumsily into their sacred waters.
The women’s pond, again true to its Victorian roots, resembles something more like a magical hidden pool in a fairytale. Secluded from the main Heath, it has a mystical feel to it - exaggerated by the prospect of hidden shared female nudity that turns every man immediately back into a teenager.
The women’s visit to the men on the other hand is more like grudgingly allowing your sister into your bedroom. Almost nothing extra is done, hardly any cakes laid out, and the men generally view the presence of women as a curious inconvenience and little more. As an aside, the less said of the mixed ponds, the better - an unsightly, silty marsh utterly lacking in charm and only open for the summer months, where one’s feet can touch the muddy bottom and most of the time is spent wishing you could just be in a real, hard bottomed swimming pool, ideally somewhere in the Mediterranean.
As the realities of our thirties start to bite - with the looming prospect of children, house moves or unforeseen major changes, I do often wonder how this past-time will progress into later life. For now our WhatsApp group holds a deeply special place in my heart - the “Wet Shop Buoys” a dependable anchor tethering the structure of my week, a tonic for the loneliness of urban life, a seasonal calendar, and a home for literally any content any of us capture related to cold swimming or honestly just being near freezing bodies of water.
My obvious, and perhaps ill-fated hope is that we persist - five years being firmly long enough to have built a quasi cult of devotion to the uniquely British muddy bog. But even if we don’t, I’m reassured in the knowledge that such a simple, in many ways hilariously nonsensical, way to spend an hour each week is a possible route to ever deeper male friendships, meaning and a quieter, more spiritual acknowledgement of the passing of time.
Now get in the pond.