Introducing Charlotte, & a note on Wild Swimming

Charlotte is a vegan, and I’m pretty sure she lives off hash brown sandwiches and red bull. This morning though she had pastry, red onion, and gravy. She kept biting her fork because she was eating so fast. ”I should slow down, but I’m so hungry and eating more slowly seems like a waste of time.” So she finished her breakfast, and went back to making giant wooden leaves out of old ping pong bats. When I saw her again later on she was sticking a pair of googly eyes onto a pastry brush with pritt-stick. Rumour has it she has 50 hula hoops of all different sizes and colour in her room. Her room is next to mine in the staff house, and we had a conversation through the wall the other evening. It got a bit mixed up, though. I thought she asked me if I had great tits, to which she replied, “not great tits, grey tits.” Turned out she was actually trying to find out about the name of a type of small garden bird. Truth be told, you couldn’t really ask for a better next door/room neighbour - when I had a really bad cough she asked if I was dying, and then shoved a whole strip of strepsils through the door (never once telling me to shut up). She told me in the morning that she’d been googling late night pharmacies, but even with her driving she couldn’t have made Whitehaven in time. Better than all that though is the random objects that have been steadily appearing in the living room. The most noticeable being a foot tall statue of a one armed Native American Indian called Steve. There’s also now a world toilet calendar hanging up in the kitchen area. It arrived in the post and she still has no idea who sent it to her. I was looking through the pictures with great interest, and was overcome with excitement when I saw the November toilet was in Cumbria! Claire and Charlotte did some internet research and found out that this particular toilet was located in Penrith. “What! That’s not far at all....maybe we should go on some sort of pilgrimage?!” They both thought this was an excellent idea, and Charlotte was all for going right that very minute. Trouble was, it had gone 10pm and we were pretty sure it wouldn’t be open 24 hours.  It was also agreed that spiritual things such as this couldn’t be rushed, and while we were on that sort of topic, Claire suggested that it be renamed a Poo-grimage (it was after all, not just a regular pilgrimage). 

I wouldn’t say I prefer running at night than in the day, but sometimes it’s exactly what you need. It’s an entirely different experience - just the world immediately in front of you created by a headtorch. I tend to stick to the road at these times, takes away the uncertainty to some extent & gives more confidence to focus entirely on something else. It’s often the sounds of the night, creaking branches, an owl, and the ever present movement of water. I love the magic of a nighttime swim, positioning my torch on a rock to give just enough light. Sometimes you don’t even need that if the moon is out and full. To see the patterns dancing on the clear surface of the river, and your hot breath rising as you enter the beautifully cold water. I’d gone out one night last week after finishing a split shift at 9pm. I braved the route to Seathwaite farm and back - this was the first time I’d done this since being stopped by the farmer and ‘accused’ of sheep rustling! I had reached the end of the road, only to find a man crouched down behind the wall with a pair of binoculars. At first I though he was some wildly disorientated fell walker, but upon asking if he was ok, he started demanding to know what I was doing. I turned my headtorch off, stood there in my shorts, and explained what I thought was obvious - I’m just out for a run. The farmer stood up, and said, “Oh. I thought you were sheep rustling.” Thankfully there was no one behind the wall this time, but on the way back an oncoming farm truck did stop alongside me. I also stopped, expecting them to wind down the window, but no. They just peered out for a bit and drove on. When I got home Bianca was in the living room - she gave me a despairing look, and said “have you been in the river again?!” 

I suppose it’s partly the nature of it, but for me wild swimming has always been a solo pursuit. One exception to this was when a friend of mine, Clare, was staying at the hostel last week. I first met Clare when she was staying in Eskdale with her partner, & after subsequent stays in both Eskdale and Borrowdale we struck up a friendship. Clare is one of those remarkable women, someone who gets it, gives a shit about the important stuff, and has a spirit which you know can only have come through tough times. I suppose we really got chatting when I found out that she was a poet, then I mentioned that I wrote a little, too. Talk about writing led to talk about other things, including wild swimming. I think at that time it was something that Clare was just getting into - but it rapidly became a part of her life (as it had done mine). No two people ever experience something in the same way (not even the one same person can do this), but sometimes there are similarities. I was trying to explain a little bit about it to a friend on Facebook...about the cold water, and the joy of immersing yourself in nature so that you no longer know where your body ends and the world begins, and for that time you can forget yourself entirely. Clare commented, “Yes, exactly this.” There’s also definitely an element of ‘the usual rules don’t apply’. I remember one swim in particular, a dip in Lingcove Beck on the way back from going up Bowfell. I could see the Scafell range from this pool, and the late afternoon sun was drawing patterns through the water on my skin. I was filled with a deep sense of contentment, and without a trace of vanity I felt beautiful both outside and in. I’ve been more used to feelings of utter worthlessness which have led to self-harm. Wild swimming is for me transformative. It is healing. 

Clare is doing a UNICEF fundraiser for Syrian refugees - cold water swimming every day in January. As I wasn’t working the following morning, I agreed to join her for an early swim before she headed back to Yorkshire. Snow was forecast overnight, but we had one good headtorch, one crap headtorch, and a pair of hand warmers that Charlotte had randomly given me earlier on that evening. I was studying the instructions on these hand warmers intently when Clare asked, “Is this what happens when you live in Borrowdale? You read the notes on everything as if it’s a missive from the outside world?!” I dismissed her comment, and told her that it was very important - “I’m trying to ascertain if there will be any adverse effects if I put them inside my bra after I’ve got out of the water. I don’t want to burn my boobs.” There was indeed snow overnight, and we didn’t need either headtorch when we set off in the morning - the world was white and light. We walked through Stonethwaite, and a short way up the start of the Langstrath valley. The water was icy cold, but perhaps it felt a little warmer than moments before being stood barefoot in the snow. We didn’t stay in too long, a swim up the gorge to the waterfall letting the current bring us back. It was exhilarating, and I really enjoyed the company - I’m not sure there are many people I’d have been utterly comfortable sharing that experience with. Clare often goes swimming with a small group of her friends (also doing the fundraiser), and she commented that this was the first time that someone had been in the water before her, got out after her, but was still changed first! I think she was also pretty impressed with my strange high knee walking style & weird karate sound effects as I tried to warm up afterwards. I didn’t even realise I was doing it, so I suppose it must be some sort of interesting inbuilt survival technique.