A love letter to the Ladies’ Pond

I was working at a pub down the road from the shabby little flat where I lived. With a tiny kitchen and no other communal space, meals were eaten from the deep-set arched window in my room. You couldn’t exactly call it a window seat but there was just enough space to squeeze inside. The view stretched across Kingsland Road’s bars and takeaways and I had gotten used to being lulled to sleep by the sound of sirens. But the rent was cheap and it was a luxury to be within walking distance of London Fields Lido, one of the city’s public outdoor pools that I had come to treasure. 

It was a clammy midweek morning amidst the haze of a long summer. I had the day off and was intent on exploring a pocket of green in the city. Hampstead Heath had been at the top of my list to visit for some time and the prospect of a swim at Parliament Hill Lido decided my destination for the day. I studied an old map of the heath in a dusty guidebook and a cluster of blue to the north east of the lido caught my eye. I had heard of these famous bathing ponds but never looked into their whereabouts. Two swimming spots so close together seemed far too good to be true.

Parliament Hill Lido first opened in 1938 and is now Grade II listed by virtue of the building's classic art deco style. The 200ft stainless-steel lined pool had a metallic shimmer and its cold water was a blissful relief on such a hot morning. The air already smelt of scorched concrete and suncream. Despite being early, the poolside was starting to buzz. I floated on my back, admiring the Edwardian red-brick mansion blocks whose pretty balconies overlooked the heath beyond. I was tempted to recline on my towel for a day of reading in between dips, but feeling too curious to settle, I set off in search of the next swim.

It was surprisingly easy to find quiet trails veering away from the busy main footpaths. Walking deep under the tree cover revealed wonderful patches of solitude. I emerged from the shade of ancient oaks and crossed a meadow ablaze with wildflowers where the smell of hot, dry grass reminded me of the fields around my family home. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I wanted to leave Hackney and its noise. An intention that took root on discovering the Ladies’ Pond.

I read somewhere that paths run through people as surely as they run through places. Once an old farm track, the shaded leafy tunnel that leads to the Ladies’ Pond became one such a path for me. I remember feeling a mixture of anxiety and anticipation when first reading the signs fixed to black iron railings at the entrance: ‘Women Only.’ ‘Attention: The water is deep and cold. Competent swimmers only.’ But when I pushed open the gate and walked up the dusty lane, I had the sense of being in a place that felt very much like home. I passed the meadow where topless sunbathing has been allowed since 1976. Women were sprawled across the grass on a patchwork of towels, reading, chatting, soaking up the sun. Stopping at a picket fence, I saw my first glimpse of the velvet brown water where a handful of swimmers happily breast-stroked in sedate loops around the tree-encircled pool. It was like a scene from an old novel. I was stunned that such a place still existed, concealed in the middle of London. 

Women changed judgement-free and out in the open but I was too timid to join them. Instead I took one of the changing rooms housed in a scandi-style building on a deck above the water, before eagerly descending one of two metal ladders dipping straight into the deep. The water was cold, rich and smooth. I was enthralled by that feeling of never being able to touch the bottom. After sailing to the middle of the pond, I then skimmed its edges on my back beneath weeping willows. It was an instant infatuation, a story shared by many who have taken to these waters.

Though only three are allotted to swimming, there are around thirty ponds in the heath that were originally created to provide drinking water for the surrounding villages. They are fed by the natural springs of the River Fleet, London’s greatest subterranean stream, descending the hills from Kenwood. The ponds became known in the late-18th century for having mineral-rich water with health-giving qualities. People have been swimming in them since the 1860s but it was in 1925 that the women’s bathing pond officially opened. The ponds are segregated by tradition. A short walk from the ladies’ is another exclusively for men, then across the heath a mixed swimming hole can be found. Each is watched over and maintained by lifeguards, with simple showers and changing sheds. Despite being managed by the City of London, there is something anarchic about the ponds. They retain a sense of freedom, providing a wild sanctuary for those seeking to escape London’s constant clamour.

I spent the rest of that day in and out of the pond's waters, returning to my room in Dalston late that evening, fixed on finding somewhere to live a little closer to this slice of peace I’d stumbled upon. A couple of months later, I moved into a house-share with five strangers. The advertisement on Spare Room mentioned a short walk to the heath and I was overjoyed to discover that the Ladies’ Pond was a twenty minute stroll from the front door. A year later, I edged even closer when my partner and I moved in together, renting a little flat on Highgate Road that overlooked the heath’s treetops. Our rent was a small fortune but a welcome compromise for as long as we could make it work. 

Long absorbing rambles across the heath would transport us to the countryside. Our free time was spent wandering like strangers in a fog, discovering ferny expanses and blustery vantage points, studying sculptured trunks and lazing in woodland glades beside thick oaks that looked like they belonged in Constable paintings. The heath reconnected me to the seasonal shifts that I didn’t realise I had been missing: the long shadows of autumn that fell in streaks across the hillsides, winter browns, broken by bursts of buttery gorse and the blue stars of wild forget-me-nots. During the lazy hours of summer, I would lie on the long grass in the heavy sun, as though floating on my back in the sea. There is one particular tree skeleton on a high meadow that catches the breeze. The tree died on its feet long ago, and we would sit beneath it, watching ring-necked parakeets squabble upon its silvered, brittle branches overhead. At this spot, we enjoyed many picnics on a Saturday with goods from Parliament Hill Farmers’ Market spread across sun-bleached blankets. Countless dinners bundled into Tupperware were devoured here at dusk, while the sun slipped into the slopes and hollows of the heathland. 

I started off relishing pond swims in the warmer waters of spring and summer, basking in its restorative effects after many long, unfulfilling days at work. Just a couple of laps would help make sense of the day, leaving me that little bit more at ease. I found that I would rarely visit the lidos that I had once held so dear. They had been trumped by the allure of swimming outdoors surrounded by trees, gliding through the water quite aimlessly rather than thrashing out lengths between ropes. It was wonderful to share the water and be on nodding acquaintance with mallards, coots, moorhens and exotic looking mandarin ducks, particularly when their curious ducklings and chicks would follow in my wake. When the mighty local heron or menacing looking cormorant would appear from the clouds and settle within reach to showcase their prehistoric forms up close, it would more than make my day. My pond swims became a sort of reset. I was quickly addicted. As the summer turned into autumn, the decision to carry on and brave the winter months was an easy one to make.

I learned that some of the women who swim in the Ladies’ Pond during the colder months are in their eighties. I was in complete awe of them. I also learned of an unspoken bond between swimmers, particularly those that bathe all year round. Leaning into the grey dawn and walking the earthy tracks of the heath towards an early morning autumnal swim, I would catch the eye of a passerby with a red nose and wet hair beneath a wooly hat. It was clear that they were a fellow pond fiend from the crazed grin upon their face. Exchanging the knowing look of shared experience would spur me on, particularly on mornings when rolling out of bed early to plunge into a cold-water pond felt far from sane. 

Once the water temperature drops to 12°C, the ponds furthest depths are closed off for the winter. It was around this time that I started to understand what it really meant to have your breath taken away. That is, until the endorphin high would kick in. At the end of a swim my numb hands would struggle to haul me up the ladder and out of the water. Noticing other women now wearing neoprene gloves and socks I happily invested in a set myself. They were a complete game changer, enabling longer swims through an otherworldly carpet of fallen leaves. My coldest swim was following a dusting of snow that had fallen overnight. Patches of the pond were covered in ice, while the lifeguards' blackboard proclaimed that the water temperature beneath it was 1.5°C. Naturally, when they were needed most, I had forgotten my swimming gloves and remember intently focusing on my ghostlike hands moving through the tea-brown water. Emerging, my body was blazing and my mind had been washed of all its clutter. It was a swim that has stayed with me, one of those moments of clarity; of being in exactly the right place at the right time.  

It’s well known that cold water swimming has physical benefits, but there are others that are a little harder to define. For me, the sense of connecting to my surroundings and feeling the seasons more deeply always come out on top. The pleasure of seeing the architecture of creaking trees in the winter winds while floating on my back, then victoriously standing in a bowl of warm water while getting changed afterwards - these are the sort of moments that would shape the days. The bowl trick I had learned from observing the curious rituals of others in the changing room. Hot showers are not advised after a cold swim. The hot water can cool your core which can be quite dangerous. Instead, plunging your feet into warm water helps heat you up slowly, the sensation of which is somewhat heavenly. Once wrapped back up in wooly layers, I would sit on a bench in the meadow and indulge in a steaming flask of hot chocolate, often joined by a local cat purring at my ankles. When acclimatised and back home, I would then jump into a hot shower where silt would slip from my body. There became no better way to start the day. 

We began an annual tradition while living by the heath. On New Year’s Eve we would have dinner at a local old pub (either The Flask, The Bull & Last, or The Spaniards) and then walk up to one of the heath’s quieter viewpoints overlooking the city. From here we would watch the litany of firework displays light up the skyline at midnight, toasting the year gone by with a flask of mulled wine. Each New Year's Day the intention was to spend it doing things that I hoped to do more of and that always meant a swim in the pond. Merriment and cold water swimming go hand in hand. Mince pies and other festive treats were laid across trestle tables by the locals for all to enjoy succeeding a New Year’s Day dip. Following these swims the promise of the year ahead was infectious. 

Soon enough, the paths of the heath were again choked by nettles and full froths of cow parsley. After months of short winter swims, it was wonderful to feel the turn of the water on those first days of spring; no longer sharp but cool and smooth, as fresh as summer rain. The murmurs of conversation began to accumulate in the meadow where bodies were laid bare to dry. The ropes were extended, the dragonflies and water lilies returned, and regulars would leave out baskets of homegrown fruit and vegetables for the picking. The pond was somewhere I could go and be quiet. It was wonderful to know that it was always there, summer and winter, providing much needed respite from the greys of the city.

The pattern of our days living by the heath shaped itself into a happy life for a number of years. Yet it was often relief that I found at the Ladies’ Pond, at the sense of not being in London at all. I would spend any free time planning trips to the coast or countryside, seeking spots where we could swim alone in wild waters, where we could walk just a few minutes and find ourselves surrounded by fields or jagged clifftops, breathing in fresh air and stretching our legs. I would feel deflated on returning to the city. It’s often easy to see other places as more exotic and to miss the everyday beauty right under your nose but pond swims and heath walks had become intrinsically linked to my happiness. I started to resent any plans made that left no time for them. There is so much to love about London but it was clear that my hunger for a more rural existence was growing. On top of which, work was feeling increasingly unfulfilling and it was ever more difficult to comfortably cover our outgoings alongside rent. Fortunately, my partner felt it too. Our life together had happily unfolded at our little flat by the heath but we made the decision to fold it back up and move on from the city.

It was during the outbreak of Covid-19 that we found ourselves boxing up our belongings. To be leaving secure jobs and moving during the pandemic felt very surreal. The ponds were forced to close and although completely necessary, it was particularly strange to not be able to swim in their decompressing waters during such uncertain times. Of course there is nothing like a global pandemic to put everything into perspective. Having the heath on our doorstep during those first months of lockdown for the permitted daily dose of exercise meant the world. Since then, we have squeezed all of our belongings into a relative’s garage and moved in with my parents, while slowly forming plans to make a small corner of the countryside home. 

The day before the ponds closed in March I went for a glorious last dip. Afterwards, I changed outside and settled in a quiet meadow nook, while my bathing costume dried hanging from a tree branch in the late afternoon sun. I’m writing this now at a time when the ponds have reopened with a booking system. Testament to what a special place they are for so many and particularly during tough times, the hour long sessions have been selling out quickly. While back in London visiting for the week I was elated to secure one. It was like seeing an old friend after far too long a time. Swimming alongside the reeds, I spotted the heron swoop by and pluck a fish from the water. Then, within seconds, the darting flash of turquoise from a kingfisher. The lifeguard and another swimmer shared the spectacle and it was such a beautiful moment that I was close to weeping.

For me, the Ladies’ Pond is one of the most magical places in London. It became a small ocean when the sea felt distant and helped me reconnect with nature in a way that changed what I wanted from my day to day life. With the rise in popularity of wild swimming over recent years, many more now frequent and cherish the ponds. Recent disciples – such as myself – are intimately united with all those swimming here across the decades. The want to protect this wild sanctuary in the city is stronger than ever. It is a very precious thing indeed. 

If you fancy starting up cold water swimming, The Outdoor Swimming Society has many helpful guides on what to expect and how to safely warm up, as well as any potential dangers to be aware of.