“Women Only. Men not allowed beyond this point,” read the sign. I had arrived at the Kenwood Ladies’ Pond. The sky, a cold, hard, autumn blue. Featured last year on NatGeo’s “Seven Best Wild Swimming Spots in the U.K.” the pond is on the northeast corner of Hampstead Heath — itself an urban wilderness marvel — tucked away on a shady path, about a 25-minute walk from various public transport options. Fed by the city’s subterranean River Fleet, it has existed solely for the purpose of offering women a private place to swim since 1926.
Through the gate — more like through the looking glass — I went, into the spartan but adequate facilities. A handwritten chalkboard sign announced the water temperature: 65 degrees Fahrenheit. Roughly the same as the September chill in the East Hampton bay where I swim all winter. But this was entirely different. The pond is a black trough, brooding and uninviting. Nothing is visible past a couple of inches below the surface. Apparently, carp, crayfish, water snakes, water rats, fleas, and larvae exist below. And — I’m certain of this — mythical water creatures.
Still, with my chin resting on the glassy surface, I felt as though I had been swept into a gorgeous Merchant Ivory film. Weak sunlight, the color of pale ale, streamed through the trees. Dragonflies danced in front of my face, kingfishers trilled, and a mallard glided by with one beady eye on me. Fuzzy ducklings, busybody coots, and moorhens seemed entirely unruffled by the procession of female heads held high, the occasional scream of a cold-water virgin, and the distinctive hum of women’s laughter and chatter.
How is it that such a pool of uncomplicated happiness can exist in the middle of clamorous London?
