An exploration of community and the passing of time with some of the women who swam in Kenwood Ladies’ Pond in the 60s, 70s, and 80s.
“The camera will stay in the bag.”
With raised eyebrows, the Kenwood Ladies’ Pond ticket lady declared this more than she asked. I sheepishly acquiesced, slipping my camera away as I noticed a ‘No photography’ sign to my right.
It made sense.
Enshrined by towering trees and a very tall gate, the North London pond is known by many as a sacred and private space. It’s located within Hampstead Heath, a park made up of over 800 acres of fields and woodlands where it’s easy to forget that you’re still in a capital city.
Two solid placards set the scene at the front gate, one reading “Women Only” and the other warning of “Deep and cold” water for “Competent swimmers only.”
It’s mid-October and I nearly get cold feet, nervously glancing between the ever-graying sky and the 11-degree Celsius notice board.
“You don’t have to worry about anything being stolen,” Ruthie assured me as I settled into the locker room. A Canadian woman who visited London for a week in 1968 and never left, she explained that she had visited the pond almost every day for years.
I asked her if it ever got too cold for her to which she replied with a wry chuckle: “No, never. Never.” Anyway, she preferred it when the cold dispersed the summer crowds.
The pond culture had naturally transformed over the years and Ruthie spoke warmly of days past: “You couldn’t go topless, which you can now. It was full of rules and so on, but it was wonderful. It was much emptier. People didn’t know about it.”
Pulling an aquamarine swimming cap over her silver hair, she patiently answered my barrage of ‘first-time-cold-swimmer’ questions and led me outside. The swimming area was roped off and would continue to grow smaller as the temperatures dropped throughout the winter.
Even before she lowered herself into the dark pond, it looked as if she were moving through water, her limbs slow and languid. I followed her lead and climbed down the ladder, skin tingling and breath catching. And there we were, all of us bobbing along the glorious pond surface—sleepy ducks, fallen leaves, and hearty swimmers.
“There was always a feeling of community and without sounding too cheesy, sisterhood.”
Julia Burnett
As rain began to pelt against dampening heads, I’m sure we all experienced our own kind of liquid romance—women loving a pond and a pond loving women.
My hands shaky from cold and endorphins, I sketched the scene once I was out and mostly dry. I was afraid I might forget it, unlike Julia Burnett. A painter who first visited the pond in her 20s, Burnett spoke of bike rides from Brixton, peeping Toms, and strides in the 1980s feminist movement.
“I haven’t visited there for some years,” she wrote. “It has been on my mind for some time, so I started working on a small series from memory, recollecting those times and trying to capture the unique atmosphere of being there. There was always a feeling of community and without sounding too cheesy, sisterhood.”
The Ladies’ Pond evolves, as do its swimmers. Still, loving the pond is a quiet and sincere art, whether through weathered devotion or painterly strokes.
By the accounts of both Ruthie and Julia Burnett, it seems one of the greatest respects one can pay is the intimate act of remembrance.
Featured image courtesy of Julia Burnett.