Magic or madness? Michael Devlin braves Atlantic ice

A man walking a dog trudges past, shoulders hunched, leaning into the frigid, on-shore breeze. He looks to be in a hurry, as well he should be; the air temperature is 8C (according to the car) but the wind-chill must be pushing the actual figure towards brass monkey territory.

Away to my left I can see a van in the distance and there are a few hardy surfers bobbing in the water, clad from head to toe, no doubt, in an Artic-standard 5mm suit. That thought makes my stomach clench in trepidation.

Rossnowlagh being where it is, if you set off in a north-westerly direction the next place you’d make land-fall is Iceland. Iceland! Beyond that it’s the North Pole.

“Are we really gonna do this?” Number One Daughter asks. She can see I’m having second thoughts. One minute I’m thinking about stripping down to my smalls and going for a swim in what is effectively the North Sea and the next I’m wondering if I could see Iceland on a clear day.

“I don’t know, buddy. It’s wile cawl. I don’t think it’s going to be any warmer in the water. Maybe we’ll come back another day.”

“Awww, really? I thought the whole idea was that the water had to be cold.”

“There’s cold and then there’s cold – and then there’s Rossnowlagh Beach in November cold.”

Just as I say this, the wind picks up and begins blowing the sand around, stinging the legs of anyone stupid enough to be wearing shorts, ie, me.

“To hell with this,” I say with confidence. “I’m getting back into the car.”

But no sooner had I turned the key in the ignition to get the heat going, Number One Daughter starts banging the window. She’s laughing at me.

“I’m gonna take a video of you,” her muffled voice tells me through the window. “And then I’m gonna post it on TikTok.”

“To hell with this,” I say and slam the steering wheel with both hands.

“We always come out of the water happier people.”

This was local fitness and health guru, Paul Connolly, whom I spoke to the day before the beach. I was looking for top tips and yes, maybe even a bit of a pep talk.

“Now is the time to do it, if you’re doing it for the first time. You wouldn’t want to be doing it well into December or January if it’s your first go.”

But why submerge yourself in ballistic-cold water in the first place? Well, according to Paul and a host of other experts, there is a whole Gulf Stream of powerful mental and physical benefits to be had from cold water treatment or in my case, swimming in the North Sea on a freezing cold day in November.

For yonks now athletes have been using ice baths as a way to reduce inflammation and boost recovery but apparently the benefits go deeper. Clinical trials have shown that cold water treatment has been known to relieve symptoms of depression. Then there are claims that it boosts energy levels, enhances circulation and even helps our immune system.

Prior to turning up at Rossnowlagh I had a wade around online to read about some of the benefits and it appears that cold water treatment helps just about everything (much like CBD oil pre-pandemic).

I didn’t and don’t know how much of this information is real (internet research is a bit of a minefield) but if there are claims that uncomfortably cold water helps a person’s mood and works as a catalyst for endorphin release, then surely a dunk in the Donegal brine would work as tangible and comprehensive personal research. Wouldn’t it?

But what about the pain?

Paul laughs when I make this enquiry. “Even for me there are days when I’m thinking, ‘I don’t know if I wanna do this today,’” he explains. “But it’s always good.

“As soon as you’re in, you’re feeling good in there. There’s a nice wee sense of calm for the rest of the day too. You’ll love it.”

Paul went on to explain that he embarks on this cold water madness at least once a week and in the past seven days had done the dunk three times. The man even keeps a barrel in his back garden filled with cold water! Is he mad or could there be a magical method in the madness?

After slamming the steering wheel another few times for good measure, I climbed out of the car and shed my winter coat. One of Paul’s tips had been to jog on the beach for a while to raise the body temperature ahead of the swim and so I took off up the beach in shorts and a T-shirt, Number One Daughter and the dog in tow.

My first realisation was how utterly painful my feet were. Out of socks and shoes, my toes went from comfort to pain in a split second. I swallowed down the hurt as best I could and ran on.

Surprisingly (for me at least), after a few minutes of running, the pain in my feet began to subside. Don’t get me wrong, they didn’t warm up but rather, went into a kind of numb torpor. I ran on.

“There are two ways you can do this,” Paul’s voice echoed in my head. “Wile slow or just commit and make a run for it.”

“To hell with this,” I muttered what was turning out to be the catchphrase of the day, and set off for the water’s edge. But as soon as the first toe hit the water, I stopped. The sea felt like liquid nitrogen and I expected that first toe to disintegrate at any moment.

“Come on, Dad. Don’t be a baby.” This was Number One Daughter again.

Oh! The shame!

There was nothing else for it.

It was going to hurt but sure, what odds? So long as the shock of the water didn’t give me a heart attack, I’d be fine.

I blew into my hands and gave them a good rub (as if that was going to help) and shouted, “Right, ya fuppen Baxter!” and started running into the water.

All rational thought fled. It was just sea and me and I was distantly aware that Number One Daughter and the dog would be following.

Someone was shouting, and for a long moment I wondered who that might be. Then I realised: It was me! I was, not to put too fine a point of things, roaring my head off, like a berserker running into battle. I’m sure you can imagine the language.

When running became impossible due to the depth of water, I started wading. I waded as quickly as I could as the surprisingly aggressive waves broke against my midriff making me gasp.

However, I told myself I was resolute and determined and, trying to ignore the searing, cutting pain of the overpowering cold, I kept going.

Up to my waist, I’m not ashamed to say, I was almost delirious – especially when the Rossnowlagh surf had kissed my undercarriage. This was as cold an experience as I’d ever encountered.

You know the way sometimes, when you’re in the shower and you nudge the hot water a little way up and that burst of heat feels so intense and beautiful? Well, North Sea water is like taking away that intense beauty and replacing it with a mind-rending surge of frigidity. What was beautiful is transformed into a core-enveloping explosion of ice-cold mania. Think the arch-traitor at Dante’s Centre of Hell.

“To hell with this!”

I don’t think I had been in the drink for two minutes before I took the executive decision to pull the pin. The North Sea, I had decided, was a singularly inhospitable place for a pink, hairless monkey in November.

Number One Daughter, I could see, was chittering with the cold and as I too had reached an anti-nirvanna, we clambered to our feet and headed for land.

The walk back to the car was punctuated with yet more pain. Each step in the shell-spattered beach threw up a spasm of soreness as my numb feet ricocheted with complaint at every impact. It reminded me almost of long distance running. Towards the end of a race when you’re sore and tired and cramping, you realise that the only way for the pain to be over is to run faster. So that’s what I did.

“Maybe bring a flask of hot tea with you for after,” Paul’s voice returned.

“And maybe do another wee jog on the beach too, to get the body temperature up again.”

I remember asking him too, “So when will I start to feel good.”

Paul had laughed for the second time. “Put it like this,” he said. “You’ll enjoy a good pint of stout that night.”

Since stepping on the shells felt like running on tacks, I forewent Paul’s idea about a second jog. Instead, back at the car, I roughly rubbed myself down with a towel, jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

“Where’s the flask of tea?” I asked no-one in particular when I couldn’t find the Thermos. “WHERE’S THE FUPPEN FLASK OF TEA?!?!”

A number of things happened after this, all of which were surprising.

I found the flask and drank one of the most memorable cups of my life. It tasted like the brew St Peter might offer when you’re waiting for a decision at the Pearly Gates.

Then I put clothes on, discovering a new-found appreciation for socks and trousers and all my heat-trapping fabrics. My T-shirt was glorious!

Then I drove our little party in the direction of Donegal Town for a hot lunch and that pint Paul had recommended. But it was as I was driving past the elephant grass lining the shore road that the tingling started.

I can’t say exactly where it began but eventually this became an all-body experience from my still-chilly feet to the hair on my head. Like a tuning fork, I was thrumming as though struck.

“Sarah, how do you feel, buddy?” I enquired of Number One Daughter. Could she be feeling this too?

“I feel great!” she replied simply from the back seat. And strangely enough, so did I. In short, I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so… alive.

Thinking back on the Rossnowlagh experience from the comfort of central heating and yet more tea, I understand why people like Paul put themselves through the cold water treatment on a regular basis. Apart from any potential health benefits it might offer in the long run, in the short term, cold water swimming makes you feel reborn.

For the rest of that day (lunch, two pints of stout, a stomp around Donegal Town’s shops and then the most magnificent shower in living memory), I felt calm and yet exhilarated but most of all, overjoyed to be alive.

Whatever the cold does to a person in physical terms I don’t know but I suspect it has something to do with the impact of extreme discomfort followed by normality, which starts the endorphins flowing. There’s also a distinct sense of having overcome a challenge, of having achieved something, something worthwhile. It’s both mental and physical and somehow, against all the odds, all the components of the mission combine to make you feel like a better version of yourself.

“We always come out of the water happier people,” Paul had said and he’s right (how could I ever have doubted you, Paul?).

Admittedly, cold water goes against any sane person’s better judgement. Cold is painful and too much cold would eventually lead to death. But two minutes’ exposure to this type of cold, whilst excruciating, eventually leads to a new appreciation for life.

The moral of the story is: You need cold water treatment in your life.

I know I do.