Approaching 60, I signed up for an Introduction to Wild Swimming at Broadfields in June 2025 as a simple “give it a go.” In truth, it was my way of pushing back against the fear of the unknown that had
crept in over recent years — the quiet “what if?” that so often held me back.

It had been a heavy time. After caring for elderly parents and facing the sudden illness of an older sibling, we experienced four significant bereavements in less than 18 months. I had returned to swimming after many years away, finding that focusing on breathing and technique helped steady the sense of hollowness. As my confidence grew, I felt ready for something that stretched me further. By chance, I saw a post about the Broadfields course — and that June day changed so much.

There were welcoming faces, gentle encouragement and the shared celebration of that first cold-water swim (it certainly felt cold to me). Just as reassuring was the emphasis on safety — the course was excellent and the lifeguards wonderfully supportive.

Since then, Broadfields has given me more than I expected: the quiet pride of overcoming something physically challenging; the confidence to arrive alone and strike up conversations; the choice to swim in companionship or in peaceful solitude. The more I went, the more I wanted to return. By autumn, even the thought of colder water became a draw. I found myself laying out my kit the night before with childlike anticipation. When a friend asked if I “got the high” people talk about, I realised it’s far deeper than that. For years I had worried about how I looked, whether I fitted in. At Broadfields, wrapped in a dry robe and bobble hat, none of that matters. Age, size, status — it all falls away. Many swimmers have faced loss or illness; there’s an unspoken understanding, a simple kindness — a shared hot water bottle, a message to check you’re okay after a chilly swim.

And then there’s the lake itself: sunrise light on the water, the glow of tow-floats on a moon swim, the flash of a kingfisher, laughter fading into companionable silence, the delicate tinkling of winter ice. Often, before heading home, I pause at the water’s edge and watch the next group make their way down the ramp
— bright hats gliding across the lake — and feel a deep, steady calm.

What began as “give it a go” has become something far more meaningful: connection, courage and a quiet,
enduring joy.