Participants take part in the Swim Serpentine on Saturday 16th September 2023. Photo: Jed Leicester for London Marathon Events For more information please contact media@londonmarathonevents.co.uk
If you listen closely on any grey morning in London, you might just hear it: the faint, triumphant gasp of someone plunging into water they probably shouldn’t be in. Yes, wild swimming has wormed its way into the hearts (and goosebumped bodies) of city dwellers who are fed up with spin classes, scented candles, and other dry ways of coping.
In a capital famous for its congestion, concrete, and commuters with thousand-yard stares, the idea of sliding into a cold, open body of water feels both primal and radical. It’s urban escape without the train fare. It’s mindfulness by way of mild hypothermia. It’s nature therapy, minus the tent and insect bites.
There a number of open water spots in London where you can swim wild. Let’s dive in!
Let’s define our terms, because clarity is important when you’re half-naked in a duck pond.
Wild swimming simply means swimming outdoors in natural waters: lakes, rivers, reservoirs, seas, ponds—anywhere not chlorinated and regulated by someone in Crocs with a whistle. It’s swimming how our ancestors did, albeit with fewer leeches and less danger of being hunted by Vikings.
The key difference in London? You’re doing it in a place not naturally associated with nature. And yet, somehow, the capital has managed to stitch together a surprising patchwork of glorious swim spots.
Outdoor swimming isn’t new. In fact, Victorians were mad for it—though their swims often came with moral handwringing and gender segregation enforced by stern men with moustaches. The ponds of Hampstead Heath, for example, have been open to bathers since the 1800s. Today, they’re still going strong, with three separate ponds (men’s, women’s, and mixed) that draw everyone from literary eccentrics to Instagram wellness crusaders. On sunny days, the crowd is a sort of waterlogged Glastonbury without the music—or the toilets.
The Heath’s ponds are sacred ground. If wild swimming had an Instagram account, it would live here. The men’s and women’s ponds offer a rare single-sex space that’s become vital for many swimmers—especially trans and non-binary folk looking for somewhere safe and welcoming. It’s cold, glorious, and full of the kind of ducks that look like they have opinions.
This is wild swimming for people who also enjoy organised spreadsheets. The water is beautiful, there are showers and changing rooms, and the whole thing feels slightly too wholesome until you realise you’re swimming past the ghost of a submerged Victorian filter house. Still, it’s a great entry point (literally and metaphorically) for cautious dippers.
This stunning lake only reopened for swimming in 2019, and it’s fast become a local favourite. Expect teenagers, dogs, and men called Steve who insist the water’s warmer once you’re in. It’s surrounded by woods, giving it that Braveheart meets Brockley vibe.
This is the wild swim spot for people who treat exercise like it’s a second career. It’s vast, it’s clean (surprisingly so), and it has a sort of sci-fi charm—where else can you do backstroke while planes from City Airport trace vapour trails overhead? Great facilities, regular water testing, and lifeguards on standby. You might even start enjoying the post-apocalyptic glamour of it all.
This is more of a lido than a wild spot, but you’re still swimming under open skies, and it comes with the oddity of having swans as lane partners. Warning: not technically a proper wild swim, but good for the lightly feral.
🛑 Swimming in central London stretches of the Thames is strongly discouraged and technically illegal without permission from the Port of London Authority (PLA).
Why?
There are legal, safer sections of the Thames suitable for swimming—but they’re mostly upriver, past Teddington, into Richmond, Oxfordshire, and Berkshire, where the river becomes more bucolic, less tidal, and fewer tourists are watching you try to wrangle out of your wetsuit.
Wild swimming is said to improve circulation, reduce inflammation, relieve stress, and boost mental clarity. It’s also a proven way to enter a state of cold-induced existential crisis, which is very in right now.
But it’s not without risks. Cold water shock is real, and wild water may contain bacteria, pollutants, or the odd bit of ‘urban organic matter’ (read: mystery poo). Always check for signage, avoid after heavy rain (when runoff increases), and don’t swim alone if you’re a beginner. If it smells weird, it probably is weird.
And yes, let’s address it: Weil’s disease (aka leptospirosis) is a thing—caused by bacteria from rat wee. It’s rare, but possible. Moral of the story: don’t swallow the water, no matter how wholesome it looks. Wild swimming is not a juice cleanse.
To dip in public is to join a sort of watery cult. You begin by doing it “for the experience,” but soon you’re talking about cold-water endorphins, quoting Wim Hof, and buying neoprene gloves. One minute you’re a normal person with a fleece; the next, you’re at a pond at dawn whispering “this is who I am now.”
There’s a distinctly British flavour to it all. Unlike the nude, bronze-limbed Europeans, we approach wild swimming with a mixture of shame, bravado, and thermal leggings. The Hampstead crowd especially has that “I once worked with Alan Bennett” energy, and you’ll often spot someone fully nude and completely unbothered, chatting about Zadie Smith while towelling off next to a goose.
In a city built on rush and rigidity, wild swimming feels like rebellion: gentle, damp, and slightly mad. It forces you into the moment, demands nothing but presence, and offers nothing but sensation.
Still, a warning: once you start, you may become insufferable. You will talk about “getting in” like it’s Everest. You’ll start rating ponds. You’ll use the phrase “it’s addictive” at parties. And yes, one day, someone will find you standing barefoot in a car park at 6am, smiling like a lunatic.
But perhaps that’s the point. In a city that never stops moving, wild swimming is your slippery loophole—a chance to pause, float, and let the cold remind you that you’re still gloriously alive.
Now, go forth. Strip off. Wade in.
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