The Cold Embrace of Stupidity

It’s official – television has gone absolutely bonkers. We’re now being sold the idea that voluntarily hurling yourself into a freezing lake at sunrise is somehow good for you. Not just good for you, mind – life-affirming, character-building, and (God help us) “transformational”.

Every other week, there’s some doe-eyed presenter standing barefoot on the banks of a glacial tarn, waxing lyrical about nature and inner peace, before plunging into water that would give a polar bear pause. Cue swelling music, a drone shot of some mountains, and the inevitable voiceover about “reclaiming the wild self”.

Reclaiming the wild self? The only thing I’d be reclaiming is my sanity – preferably wrapped in a dry robe and clutching a hot toddy.

It used to be that wild swimming was the preserve of eccentrics – the sort of people who also grew their own hemp sandals and thought breakfast was optional. But now it’s become a thing, and once telly producers get their hands on a thing, it’s only a matter of time before everyone’s trying to outdo each other on Instagram with #IcyDipChallenge and smug selfies beside a hypothermia warning sign.

Let’s be clear: this isn’t swimming. It’s self-administered cryotherapy with the bonus round being accidental death. The water is often so cold that your body goes into shock before you’ve even had time to feel smug. You gasp involuntarily, your muscles seize up, and suddenly your much-vaunted spiritual awakening involves a rescue helicopter and a body bag.

And yet, the telly never shows that part, does it? Oh no. We’re treated to scenes of ethereal calm, serenity, people emerging from icy lochs looking like reborn water nymphs. What we don’t see is the frantic towelling-off, the purple extremities, the mild cardiac incidents, or the inevitable bout of pneumonia.

If you or I produced a programme encouraging the public to leap off cliffs or tightrope between tower blocks in the name of mental clarity, we’d be arrested. But slap some plinky-plonky piano over footage of someone submerging themselves in a frozen canal, and suddenly it's BAFTA-worthy.

Now I’ve nothing against people testing their limits. Some folk like deep diving, others climb mountains, and a few mad souls try both at once. But those activities come with rules, training, and a mutual understanding that death is on the table. Wild swimming, as portrayed on telly, is presented as the aquatic equivalent of a mindfulness app – just with more goosebumps.

The danger here isn’t the swim itself – it’s the illusion of safety. That anyone can do it. That cold water is magical and healing and, if you believe the more woo-woo influencers, might even align your chakras. I’m no doctor, but I suspect what it’s aligning is your prospects of a coronary.

So let’s stop pretending this is some innocent dip in a pond. It’s an extreme sport masquerading as self-care – and if the telly won’t say it, I will: get it wrong, and you're not coming back up.

And if you do want to take the plunge, fine – but maybe start in summer, don’t go alone, and for the love of sanity, leave the drone at home.