Doing a Mr Darcy

It's been an interesting couple of days, what with a wine tasting on Monday night, sharing the trials and triumphs of the World Cup at a mates house Tuesday, and meeting up with a couple of chums yesterday at Hampstead Heath ponds.

One of said chums has been very interested in wild swimming, for ages. I never quite got this; isn't sea swimming the ultimate in wild swimming? She's up for diving into rivers and lakes, and the latter never appealed to me so much. A part of this comes down to brilliant and terrible tales of kelpies that haunted so many lochs: I grew up wit tales of wicked things, the beguiling white pony waiting by the water's edge to take you on your last ride, or the handsome young man who finds you near the water and asks you to braid his long hair... And as you begin, your comb moves through his locks to find them wet and silt-laden; then you must know your visitor is the terrible water horse in disguise, who intends to take you down to the loch, change into his true monstrous form and destroy you. The inhabitant of Loch Ness was considered quite a placid character compared to Morag of Loch Morar; after all the former was scared off by the roarings of St Columba, whereas Morag attacked men in their very boats.I loved the water horses and water bulls of Scotland, and their ominous presence beneath the still-seeming waters remained a major part of my dreamworld. Then there were those waterhags of England, Peg Powler and Jenny Greenteeth, not forgetting the ancient water spirits/gods whose demands for life were known time out of mind: the Severn, the Dee, the Trent, the Ribble, given the attributes of hungry entities who, once getting their yearly 'catch' of drowned humans, would be satisfied from then on. I've been caught in a proper riptide once and it was scary, but not as icky as entangling weeds, or rusted chunks of metal jutting up from the riverbed... wild and free and vast the sea remains and for all its grand danger, there is nothing that feels hemmed in or oppressive about it, unlike some lake under a hill or the muddy environs beyond the river's edge.

The Hampstead Heath ponds are very good looking, poshly wild, and surrounded by wealth and good will, its spirits demanding no greater sacrifice than a voluntary donation, and possibly a mashed avocado on toast thrown in at Halloween. Surrounded by birch, beech, oak and willow, all was peaceful apart from moorhen chicks arguing with their mothers and ducks advancing on picnickers (my toes were nibbled three times by lady mallards. I've no idea what they were trying to tell me) all that was left really was to try the green water.

Cold, toe-crampingly cold despite the heat overhead. But the water had a very pleasant smell and feel, in fact the longer I swam, the more delectable it became. Moving towards the waterlily beds some weedery stroked me, and I backed away almost bumping into a coot. Then I saw a beautiful grey shade standing close to the edge, so still, so very still in fact that I knew what it had to be. The heron started to move through the water as I approached. I didn't want to get in the way of the fisher's concentration, and came no closer but watched a while, then left him to it, floating among all that green and the sky, hearing an old song from Talking Heads: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cl3B_FTDKD0

After that, we had a little meal and came home early around 9. I was tired enough to need bed pretty much straight away, and now have to pack for Spain tomorrow. I'm not sure I'm having adventures, quite, but these are pleasant times.