onionbagblog

Late August has long since been my favourite time in the lido season. The cold rush May mornings are a South London head splitter; the balmy mid-summer period is brilliant, but bumper-to-bumper both in the pool and on dry land in the Brockwell Park suntrap. The fag end of the South London summer is simply perfect when it comes to swimming, and then finding some space to procrastinate what is left of the lovely lido season.

Saturday morning was an ideal example of this. The lido queues stretching all the way around to the Cafe were but a mirage of the mid-July heat wave. The football season has started whilst cricket balls are still being bowled. The human calendar is out of synch with Mother Nature’s counting down of the days. If new school uniforms are being bought then it must mean that it is time for Match of the Day and the end of the Golden Days of the Lido.

But not for the lido hardcore who will stretch out the summer season in the same way that a slightly too tight pair of trunks continue to be worn, a refusal to accept that your best days are now behind you.

The first falling leaves of the Brockwell autumn are starting to appear around the poolside edge. Back in the Paddy and Casey Glory Years and the lido lifeguards would double up their Transpontine Baywatch duties with that of gardening. The leaves would have been swept aside and the weeding around the decking was a constant chore for any young chap privileged to wear the proud yellow livery of Brockwell Lido.

Or maybe that was just the hazy memories of sun drenched South London summers lost? The wisteria leaves now starting to turn golden brown at least added a reminder on Saturday as to how lucky you are to be swimming in such a grand art deco outdoor surround. You won’t find any back to nature musings down at Brixton Rec, Comrades.

Saturday morning saw a return to the crisp blue waters of Lake Brockwell that you are accustomed to at the start of the season. You could see clearly from one end of the 55-yard pool to the other, all ten rods, poles or perches long for the pedantic amongst you.

A similar sight greets you during the month of May. The testicular testing water temperature however remains slightly raised. 22.8 degrees was the official reading for Saturday morning. I prefer the unscientific measurment of it taking half a length before I managed to feel my head once again.

Just as there is no such thing as a bad swim - indoor or out - there is no such thing as a grumpy old sod at Brockwell Lido. The smiles might be slightly less stretched during the towel-to-towel jostling days of July, but the fag end August period is positively GRINNING.

I was greeted with a GRIN at the Reception; I GRINNED back knowing what lay waiting within. An old fella GRINNED at me for hopefully all the right reasons when I was stripped down to my birthday suit in the changing rooms. I GRINNED at the athletic Wetsuit Boy caught up in a bit of a flap as he tried to encase himself in black rubber. I GRINNED for all 32 lengths, and then didn’t stop GRINNING until my jaw packed in sometime after luncheon.

You know that the endurance of the outdoor swimming season is coming to an end and you are due a reward.

Ahhh - but is it?

The lido is a place for the cold water committed. Come mid-October and we’ll be remembering fondly those balmy mornings back in the fag end days of August.

Golden Days I tell you. Golden Days.