It might be a little worn at the edges, like an old favourite t-shirt, but this pool is far from derelict. To me it feels like a living, breathing place. The car park is full this afternoon, of dogwalkers using the park before the sun makes its early descent in the sky. I enter the building and am greeted with the smell of chlorine, the echo of laughter on wet tiles from the changing rooms. I hope I don’t bump into anyone I know from school in the water, the prospect of another week tomorrow is looming and for now I don’t want to be reminded of it. The doors to the changing cubicles are faded wood, marked with the occasional initialled graffiti. My habits always take me to the same cubicle and I’m sure I know these marks by heart.
Once I’m ready I walk out onto the pool side. The stone slabs are freezing beneath my feet. I curse myself for not bringing flip flops and hope no one will notice my wincing; I step towards the water as if I’m walking over hot sand, not the stones of this English lido in October. I wade down the steps and even though I’m expecting it, there’s a bite to the water that still surprises me. I start with a steady breaststroke as I adjust to the temperature. My head above the water, I watch the line of fir trees rising up above the wall on the far side of the pool, and the sky above them, slowly turning from blue to pale purple as we lose the daylight. I’m glad I’m looking at the open sky instead of the roof of a leisure centre. There are people in every lane but I still feel a sense of calm about the place. After a few lengths I begin to crawl, focusing on my breathing, trying to feel strong in the water.