A few yards out, something brushes against my leg – a fish? A floating bottle? – causing a reflexive, panicky yelp. Then, as we head out towards the middle of the lake, I feel myself growing in confidence. When I duck my head below the waves, at first I can see the weeds and the water. After a while, there’s nothing down there but shafts of green light disappearing into the darkness. It’s disconcerting to look for more than an instant.I flip between sidestroke and back crawl while Fran, the stronger swimmer, sticks to a confident breaststroke. The wetsuits are a miracle, taking the water’s sting away. We arc out towards the centre of the lake, venturing gradually further from the shore, while the walking party disappears from view behind a ridge.Wordsworth once praised the view from the centre of Crummock Water, but he was in a boat, which is cheating. He was right, though. With dead-flat water all around us, cormorants swooping low over the surface ahead, and the vast bulks of Mellbreak and Grasmoor above, this is the most impossibly beautiful place.
The full article is here. I don’t want to spoil the plot, but it involves me getting wet. Pictures in today’s FT Magazine.