#swimstagram

We creep upstream along a narrow path, stooping to get under the low, twisting trees that line the riverbank. It looks far too shallow to swim and there is no way down to the water, which races along over rocks that catch the sunlight just below the surface. A few miles upstream is a weir that was designed by Thomas Telford to carve water off for the canal system. This curved weir — named the Horseshoe Falls, a tiny, manmade version of its namesake on the Niagara River — creates a fresh-water swimming pool that is as popular as a beach in the summer, where toddlers can paddle in the silt whilst parents sun themselves on the bank. It’s here that, for the sake of ease and speed, I usually swim. But not at weekends or during July/August, when the inflatable flamingos and barbecues change its allure.

We wander on amongst the trees and after a few minutes a minute beach appears below us. Here, the river is dark despite the sunlight and surely deep enough to swim. Finn clambers down gamely onto the pebbly beach and starts flinging stones into the water. I change and wade in. Once my breath steadies and I adjust to the cold, I swim on my back and another of Thomas Telford’s achievements comes into view—the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, a canal in the sky. A barge is labouring across and, as it does so, a pedestrian overtakes it. I wave from the water at no one in particular then turn over, put my head down, and swim into the current.

This idyllic Sunday-morning dip was marred later that day by my reading a story published in The Times about the results of tests by the National Environment Agency. These tests found that not one of the UK’s rivers can be certified as safe for swimmers. Our rivers are among the most polluted in Europe. Unlike beaches, they have no blue-flag system to tell swimmers about the water quality. Meanwhile, across the country, sewage spews unchecked into waterways that we, the public, bathe in unawares.

Our water companies, privatised nearly three decades ago, operate some 16,000 emergency outlets, which divert sewage into rivers when there is too much rain. According to The Times, these outflows kick in after as little as 1mm of rain. So, while shareholders reap the rewards of privatisation, the rest of us swim in shit.

I could stop swimming in the River Dee, but that is exactly what the water companies, and the National Environment Agency (who should be keeping them in line) would like.

Earlier in the week, I swam in a reservoir inside the Snowdonia National Park that was crisp, clear, and deep.

“You can't swim here,” I overheard another party of people saying to one-another as I finished dressing on the shore.

Sure enough, there was a large yellow sign warning of leptospirosis (commonly known as Weil’s disease), blue/green algae, and submerged hazards. I fully appreciate that reservoirs are full of hidden dangers, but so are rivers, oceans and beaches. So is our house and our garden. I would rather the National Environment Agency, Natural Resources Wales, or the various water boards provided accurate information, so that I can judge the risks for myself. The blanket scaremongering—identical signs show up at almost every reservoir I have seen in North Wales—does little but encourage me to disregard it all as nonsense.

So I will swim on, in the hope that our privatised water companies, councils and regulators get on with the job of keeping Britain clean and stop telling me what not to do.