SWIM SPOTS

South Wales, Late Winter 2019

This trip fell towards the beginning of my first year of committing to swimming outdoors throughout the seasons. Winter swims are inevitably shorter but the feeling afterwards seems to last a good while longer. You are stripped back by the cold that can be so barbarous it becomes a kind of warmth, removing sensation and then blissfully restoring it. With the following spots in the Brecon Beacons we had the glassy waters all to ourselves. 

Llyn y Fan Fach

Llyn Y Fan Fach is a wild tarn that hides in the shadows of the Black Mountains at the far westerly edge of the Brecon Beacons. Towering above the lake are a collection of peaks for high-level circular walks. We had planned to trek to the lonely llyn and stop for a swim, before taking a mountain ridge route to Llyn y Fan Fawr; another isolated drop of blue beneath the Welsh hills. 

The weather turned on us just as we reached the Llyn Y Fan Fach car park (from Llandeusant continue past the church to Blaenau farm and the car park can be found at the end of the road). What started out as a day of straightforward grey skies was soon imbued with storm energy. Charcoal lines of cloud fast approached and the air grew thick with rain. We hoped it might be a passing burst and decided to set off regardless, following the torrent of the Afon Sawdde upstream and along the lower Beacons way. 

Gathering mist filled the dips in the hills and turned the surrounding peaks into looming shadows. We passed a series of waterfalls and a small trout farm in the middle of the mountain. The rain hammered down on the back of my hood. It had quickly carved water channels in the earth that sucked at our feet as we slipped up the footpath. So thick was the mist that I could barely see beyond my own hand when we reached Llyn y Fan Fach. 

The source of the river looked like a small ocean, with waves of brown, grey and black violently rolling across its surface. Thankfully we found a stone rescue shelter by the dam, offering respite to walkers that find themselves caught in extreme conditions. The small bothy had no windows. We kept the door open for a little light and settled on a stone bench to share a flask of hot chocolate while watching the silver rain skidding on the wet mud outside. The weather appeared to be getting worse. We were cold, soaked to the skin and had no fuel to make use of the inviting fire grate. It soon became clear that we needed to review our route plans. A walk up to the escarpment wasn’t to be that day and we decided it would be wise to head back. The lake however had already cast its spell. Embedded deep in its history is an enchanting story. Before leaving, I was determined to attempt a swim in the water that Welsh legend claims to be home to the Lady of the Lake.

Given the setting and thinking of depths plummeting eighteen metres beneath the inky surface, it’s not hard to imagine mythical creatures dwelling here. In fact, it makes perfect sense that a beautiful nymph should choose such a place to make home. Versions of her tale differ but storytellers all agree that she was more beautiful than anyone had ever seen. When a local farm boy first saw her emerging from the water in the 13th century, he had no choice but to fall madly in love. The boy stumbled forward and clumsily offered his lunch to the lady. ‘Your bread is too hard,’ she rebuked, before disappearing back into the water. The boy returned early the next morning, this time with a fresh ball of unbaked dough. When he had all but lost hope she showed herself, only to refuse his offering once more. ‘Your bread is wet.’ And with another splash she was gone.  On the third day she left him waiting until nightfall. The boy made sure he now had a perfect soft-baked loaf and the lady agreed to his proposal on the spot. She did so with a condition: ‘I will marry you. But should I receive three causeless blows I will leave you forever.’ 

The couple lived happily for many years and had three sons. The husband took great care, vowing never to strike his wife, but fate came knocking and over time the three blows fell. A playful flick of a glove at a christening, a light tap on the shoulder at a wedding and finally, a tender touch on the arm at a funeral. ‘Back home’, the lady cried and she marched across the hills to her lake. Distraught, her husband tried to follow but the waters flooded his lungs and the lake rejected his soul. For many the tale ends with this tragedy, all three sons sobbing at the water’s edge. Others speak of the lady returning to teach the healing arts to her sons, of them becoming famed physicians. The lady is said to rise from the shimmering lake on the first Sunday of each August. In Victorian times entire families would climb the mountain in the summer sun, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. These days most walkers come to Llyn y Fan Fach in search of solitude. 

I was grateful for the neoprene boots and gloves before even reaching the water, the wind and rain lashing at my skin. Great sheets of mist had rolled down and were hanging just above the surface of the lake, as though I had to jump through clouds to enter. Standing at the rocky edge, the angry surge looked wilder than my body could withstand and I had second thoughts before allowing myself to be snatched from the damp air. The water was thick with mystery and it transported me somewhere different, entertaining fantasies about what company I might have; the lady watching my shadow above her bobbing about irresponsibly like a branch in a winter storm. With the haunted depths beneath me and heavy mist overhead it was as though anything could appear. In that moment I truly believed the lady could and would; a feeling that both thrilled and terrified me.

After struggling to put my wet jeans back on we emerged from the shelter, blinking through the rain to begin our descent. I would love to return on a clear day to this natural amphitheatre: to see the towering escarpment high above Llyn y Fan Fach, to walk along the precipitous ridgeline of Bannau Sir Gaer and take in the remnants of the landscape’s glacial past. There are various wild camping ledges dotted around the lake. Facing west it would be ideal for a sunset swim. To spy red kites, buzzards and kestrels while floating through the lake’s fabled waters would be a real treat. Yet on a stormy day I learned that this place has a different kind of magic.

We reached the car shivering and limp, heavy with the fog that had smothered us. Behind us was an other-worldly swim and ahead the promise of lighting a wood fire in the inglenook of an old cottage. A perfect day.

Please note - I have since read that Llyn y Fan Fach is a drinking water supply where swimming isn’t advised. 

Henrhyd Falls

Plunging into a wooden gorge with a drop of 90 ft (27m), Henrhyd Falls is the tallest waterfall in southern Wales, while the Graig Llech Woods surrounding it are a real haven for wildlife.

We headed out from the National Trust car park through two gates. From here it was down, steeply down under the dappled awning of oak trees. Turning left, we crossed a small wooden bridge that led up a flight of steps to a higher muddied footpath. The unmistakable sound of gushing water could be heard across the valley before the spray reached our faces and the white streak of the waterfall came into sight.

Henrhyd is best seen after a downpour and we were fortunate that recent rainfall meant the waters were tumbling with purpose. The dense woodland overhead fell away and bright swathes of sunlight stretched across the cliff face that overlooked a small plunge pool fed by the falls. Looking up, sessile oaks and ash clung to the escarpment, ferns sprouted from jagged fissures and velvet moss pelts stretched across the ledges. 

We realised that it was possible to follow a ridge into a large alcove behind the waterfall. The curved grin of the cave beckoned us under and we carefully made our way along the damp, narrow passage. In the wet mouth of the cave the sound of the falls bounced from rock to rock and we found micro-gardens of moss and ferns. Peering through the curtain of water at the distorted shapes of the gorge made the place all the more endearing. We didn’t know at the time, but Henrhyd doubles as the entrance to the Batcave in the movie The Dark Knight Rises. It was certainly the perfect gateway to a secret lair and while I knew that many had been there before, it felt entirely otherworldly.

Back on the fallen boulders at the water's edge, the pool appeared peat brown in the shallows around its rim and turned to ink towards the centre. We changed quickly. The water slid over our skins like a chilled shadow and we paddled tentatively, lingering as close to the cascade as the falls would allow until being churned out of the black cauldron. 

After drying off on the rocks with a flask of tea, we meandered back down the valley, passing a smaller waterfall and a disused watermill along the way. Shade and damp-loving plants thrive here thanks to the thin soils and steep rocky slopes. Deep in the ravine, sunlight is mostly kept out by the narrowness of the gorge and its high canopy of tree branches laced together. As such, the conditions are similar to the Amazon rainforest and are of special scientific interest by virtue of the mosses, liverworts and lichen that flourish here. We tried to walk quietly along the slick footpath in hopes of spotting woodland birds. No woodpeckers caught our eye but dippers were spied hunting for insects along the river.

Sgwd Ddwli Falls, Coed y Rhaiadr

Coed y Rhaiadr translates to ‘wood of the water’ and is an area around the head of the Vale of Neath known as Waterfall Country. Here three rivers have carved their contorted way through soft seams of limestone, sandstone and gritstone to create deep wooded gorges full of cascades that plunge into azure pools. It is the most impressive network of forest lidos anywhere in Britain, with over twenty pools nestled into natural amphitheatres, all scattered along a five-mile stretch. Various trails rise and fall alongside the flowing torrents; well maintained walkways crossed by twisted roots that make pool-hopping wonderfully accessible. 

The drive to Pont Melin Fach was via a narrow forestry track that hairpins down to a small stone bridge. In the adjacent car park, we crossed paths with a young family skimming stones from the shingle river bank, and an elderly couple cooking at their camper van. It felt immediately inviting, especially in the long shadows of the late-winter sun. This is a place that deserves a full day of exploration, setting off early with a picnic and plenty of water packed. Unfortunately we only had a few hours and as such, sought out one of the nearest waterfall swims. 

We took the path following the Nedd Fechan river through a gentle valley where the rocks and trees were softened by moss and ferns, happily verdant after weeks of rain. We had only been walking for a few minutes when we reached a series of small waterfalls. I was tempted to have a dip in each but managed to suppress my urge until we found the first of the Ddwli falls after about ¼ mile. Peering over the graceful broad arc of Sgwd Ddwli Uchaf (Upper Gushing Falls), I resolved that a swim beneath was a must. We were able to cut back around to the large pool after leaving the main path a little further downstream. 

Little plant gardens emerged from slender cracks in the rocks that we crossed nearing the pools edge. We found a dry boulder to change on, our moon-white winter bodies exposed in the slash of the sun. The river rocks were slippery so my entrance into the water wasn’t the most graceful but once immersed I submitted to the torrent, floating along with my hands and feet bobbing like corks. Swimming back against the current was an unexpected fight. After the scuffle I stood facing the sun with the cascade hammering down on my shoulders.  Allowing my body to be pushed under, I sank through the foamy bubbles of the water-curtain and surfaced behind it; a hidden world where everything was shimmering green. 

We warmed our chilled bodies in a patch of sunlight, both shivering but with ludicrous grins plastered across our faces. The dappled sun had turned the bubbling water to amber and it was hard to walk away from. A cheery passer-by shouted hello from above, ‘I hope you don’t mind but I took your photo, just to prove to my wife that people are mad enough to swim here in winter.’

The ribbon of water winds on with numerous minor cascades until reaching the impressive Sgwd Ddwli Isaf (Lower Gushing Falls) where you can scramble along the river bed for a closer look. Sadly we had to make our way back at this point, but a further ¾ mile brings you to Horseshoe Falls, a set of plunge pools with deep jumps.

Llyn Cwm Llwch

Llyn Cwm Llwch is a small mountain lake hidden beneath the two highest peaks in South Wales: Pen y Fan and Corn Du. The tarn occupies a snug rocky hollow excavated by glacial force during the last ice age. High in the beautiful Cwm Llwch valley, this wild and remote expanse of the central Brecon Beacons seems an unlikely place to stumble across its sedately lapping waters.

Starting at the Nant Cwm Llwch car park it’s a 2 mile walk to the tarn following a streamside footpath and then up through the fields in the direction of the peaks. If you are seeking a secluded climb to the summit ridge of Corn Du and Pen y Fan, this is a quiet alternative to the traditional route beginning at the Storey Arms.

Meandering along, we passed a series of small waterfalls and enticing rope swings. It was then a short wander up a stony track beneath the shade of vaulting trees, bursting out from their trunks in disordered twists and turns. We emerged onto the hillside, leaving behind the gentler countryside as the path grew steeper and the view ahead spread out into a patchwork of peaks. The colours of the landscape mutated; farmland greens gave way to cold greys and burnt umbers. It was a steep climb and I was soon waning from the ascent. 

Halfway up to the summit we happened upon the lake. We climbed a hump of the hillside and all of sudden it was there, waiting beneath the flat top and high shoulders of the brooding peaks. The impressive slopes rise in great crests of old red sandstone, then plunge away in sheer escarpments, dropping from the airy summits into the depths of the tarn. Heavy clouds billowed around the mountain, the immense shadow of which rendered the water opaque. Late winter was dragging over the day and yet the water was shimmering. It made perfect sense that Llyn Cwm Llwch has captured the imaginations of many over the years. 

A legend passed down through generations tells the story of an enchanted island at its center, invisible from the shore. A passageway accessible through a rock at the lakeside was said to appear on May Day each year. Those who had the courage to pass through the opening would find themselves in a beautiful garden on the island; an eden-like kingdom inhabited by fairies. The fairy folk would enthrall their visitors with exquisite flowers, exotic fruits and stories of the future. They asked only that nothing be taken from the island. Inevitable greed took hold of one human, who pocketed the most beautiful flower he had ever seen. When he emerged from the rock, the flower vanished in his palm and all his senses were subsequently lost. The door to the island never opened again. 

We changed and hurried to the water's edge before the mountain gale had stolen all the warmth from our bodies. The gently sloping shore was rocky and I was glad of the grip beneath my neoprene boots. I felt the burn of clear, cold water on my skin; smooth and dark from the peat, like swimming through silk. Occasionally the wind whipped and wrinkled the water as I floated towards Pen y Fan, the summit’s mammoth walls rising above. I reached the middle where the black of the lake threatened to swallow me whole. No signs of any island surfaced, but I chose not to linger there and pulled my way back towards the shore. Leaping out, our skin glowed brighter than the logs in the pub’s wood burner where we warmed up later that night. As we dressed, I confess to scanning the surrounding rocks, mulling over which was most likely hiding the doorway. 

Before making our way back down the mountain side, we watched the moving specks of tiny hikers slogging up to the summit, resting victoriously at the top to survey the sheep dotted depths. I wondered what we had looked like from those heights while swimming in the lake; small grains in the pit of its stomach. 

Although we didn’t climb the ridge, I think that the interior of this mountain has to be just as spectacular as the views from its summits. I wanted to explore every fold and crevice, to disappear into the hills and seek out any other secrets they might be keeping.

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