Vivienne Rickman-Poole reflects on the intimidation, awkwardness, then utter joy she feels cold-water swimming in the mountain pools of Snowdonia
Images by Vivienne Rickman-Poole
I am constantly, helplessly drawn towards Snowdonia’s mountain pools. I find myself ever searching for the huge expanse of nothingness below the surface. Nothing quite compares to that ultimate abyss of a deep, sometimes dark, mountain lake, where there is absolutely nothing below you. That is what I am searching for in every single swim: the absolute reward for getting in. It's not always there – not all lakes are deep and crystal clear – but when it is, that's the moment of zen, when I can swim and swim, my whole body in tune, my front crawl arms, legs, hips and breathing are perfect and my mind is empty. It is a present feeling, which I think enables me to reflect more; I always spend a few moments recording or writing after every swim.
I enjoy the relationships I form with the water. One lake close to my home – Llyn Dwythwch – has been a source of love and hate for many years. Nestled in a particularly boggy cwm, it’s a spot of solitude and wet feet, of isolation and elation. I have procrastinated on its banks many times; I’ve sat on its lake bed during a mid-winter howling wind and let the cobwebs drift from my hair; I’ve floated face down and stared in complete awe at the sheer falling darkness below me. It’s this feeling of intimidation, this awkwardness and eventually utter joy from the water that constantly feeds my need to explore the mountain lakes.
Sometimes I just have an overwhelming need to feel submerged. To feel that depth, that pressure across your skin. It’s a little like receiving a hug, enveloped in a freshness that only a mountain lake can provide. I swim all year round and look forward to feeling the changing seasons on my skin, especially as winter comes and the temperatures drop; not only does the clarity of water become incredible but the somehow it feels purer.
Getting into freezing water in the dark months of winter takes some getting used to. I spent months acclimatising many years ago and have developed little rituals to help me get in with seamless ease. I like to get certain parts of my body used to the chilliness first – I splash my arms, chin, my neck, back of the neck and then I am straight in. It’s this moment, the split-second of being submerged, that feels sublime. I always feel truly alive after a swim but that feeling intensifies in winter as the water gets colder. It’s quite hard to describe – winter swims are shorter but the ‘alive’ feeling is greater and lasts longer.
I guess I am always hoping to feel an ‘afterglow’ – something that new swimmers often feel, and which comes from dipping in cold water. When you get out, usually when you’re getting changed, a flood of warmth sweeps across your body followed by slow building cold, a cold that gets inside your bones, to your very core. It’s a nice feeling, it’s intense, something you come to crave.
The experiences I have in the mountains impact my life in many different ways. On a daily level it can be both blissfully positive and a little bit negative. I mean, how can you focus on a day of work when you have walked halfway up Snowdon in first light to be the only person standing in a swimsuit on the edge of a frozen mountain lake, its mirror perfect surface reflecting the blue skies and snow-capped peaks surrounding you? Breaking the surface for an icy dip induces a knowing smile and rush of endorphins that lasts all day. I want to shout about how wonderful it was.
I have found that my journey into lone swimming has had the greatest impact on my life. Travelling into the mountains alone and making choices that are all mine, decisions only I can make – be it navigational, about the weather, about what I consider safe and listening to my own body in and out the water – these have been the things that have shaped me in other areas. I am stronger and happy to make decisions that are all mine and live by my convictions.
