It’s a Monday morning and I am taking the register at school, receiving the same dulled answers to the names on the register.
“Here sir.”
“Present sir.”
“Urmm, sir, are you the Bog Snorkelling World Champion?”
I knew this day would come. It happens every year when the students would search the teachers’ names online to find some dirt. However, in my case, a quick search of Neil Rutter brings up footage of me submerged in the murky dirty water of a peat bog in Wales. The next 15 minutes is taken up by explaining that I do have hobbies outside of school.
Bog Snorkelling is a sport that requires three things: a snorkel, some swimming trunks and a 55m-long peat bog. The task is simple – swim two lengths. But one thing that you are never prepared for is the shock of submerging yourself into the murky bog water. It takes your breath away.
I first discovered the world of bog snorkelling while at university. It appeared as the final item on BBC Points West. I don’t remember much about it, but it looked like fun. However, each year the competition came and went, and the plan to try it never materialised. Until one year when I just decided to jump in.
I turned up on the day with no prior training, and with snorkels, wetsuits and flippers in hand. I was ready to jump in head first.
Nothing could have prepared me for the shock of entering the bog. I placed my head into the brown, murky water, and it was utterly freezing.
Standing at the start line waiting for the off, I took deep breaths, trying to ready myself and stop myself from sinking into the gloopy, viscous base of the bog.
Three, two, one. Then, everything changed.
“It tasted as bad as you imagine”
I couldn’t see anything; the murky brown water closed in and it was pitch-black. I just had to shut my eyes and kick like hell.
Bouncing off the banks like a pinball in a machine, I managed to fight my way through the first 50 metres of mud. I took cheeky looks above the wash and spied the pole that signalled that I was halfway.
Prior to my run, I had watched along with the other hundreds of onlookers, thinking it looked easy, but the mud can humble even the strongest of swimmers. By the time I was at the 60-metre marker, I felt like I had just completed the 400-metre dash at the Olympics. My legs and lungs were burning, and everything was sore.
Another look above the wash and I could see the marker. The final metres seemed to stretch on for miles as I neared the finish line. With one final reach, I was able to grab the post to pull myself home.
Then came the dreaded wait. I had no idea how quickly I had completed the run; my current priority was removing the reservoir of water that had collected in my mouth. It tasted as bad as you can imagine.
I pulled my soiled neon swim cap down over my ears. After what seemed like an age, the announcer revealed the time: one minute and 12 seconds.
“Although you are in the bog on your own, I found my community along a 110-metre trench”
The first thought that raced through my mind was that it couldn’t be right. The average time for a run down the bog is three minutes. So, either they forgot to press go on the stopwatch or that was ridiculously fast.
A wave of cheering and applause rippled down the lane. I thought to myself, “Are they cheering because I’ve done it in a good time or a really good time?”.
It suddenly dawned on me. I was a world champion.
On the way home, the smell of the bog lingered. Not only was I taking home the medal, but despite being in the bog on my own, I had found belonging in a 110-metre trench.
Want to join in?
Odd One Out is offering a trip to Llanwrtyd Wells on Saturday August 25 2024 for readers who are ready to jump in at the deep end. This year, Neil Rutter is hanging up his flippers and has left a place atop the podium for a new champion. Will your name be on the trophy?
If you fancy a Bog Snorkelling weekend, check out our Membership Page and secure a ticket – make sure you bring your speedos.