No one in Cwm Coed can remember what year the swim began, but they know they wouldn’t welcome the New Year in any other way. They don’t remember which year it was that Dafydd Lewis went in wearing nothing but a Santa hat, or when the rugby lads bombed off the jetty and drenched poor Mrs. Williams.

But everyone will remember today’s swim.

There’s been snow on the peaks since before Christmas, and even with the protection from the mountains, the temperature in the town hasn’t climbed above freezing. The lake itself is bitter. Colder than last year! People gasp, at once gleeful and incredulous. We must be mad!

As if rebelling against the clear skies, wisps of mist curl above the surface of the water, their reflection giving the disorienting impression that the sky’s been tipped upside down. Above the mist, the air is vivid blue, an echo of last night’s moon suspended above the forest.

From the very top of Pen y Ddraig mountain, Llyn Drych seems more river than lake. It’s long and serpent-shaped, each bend a flick of the dragon’s tail it’s said to represent. Drych means “mirror,” and, when the wind drops and the water lies still, the surface shimmers like silver. The reflection of the mountain stretches into the center of the lake, so solid you feel you could step onto it, no hint of the black and fathomless depths beneath.

Along the path that winds its way up the south side of the mountain—from the dragon’s back to its head—ramblers stoop to pick a pebble from the path. They straighten, feel the weight of it in their hands, then look around sheepishly before hurling the stone toward the water. Legend has it that Llyn Drych’s dragon rises up if its tail is hit—few ramblers can resist the myth.

Around the edge of the lake, pine trees stand sentry, their shoulders so close that if one were felled, you could imagine them all toppling, one after another. The trees steal the view from the village of Cwm Coed, but they take the worst of the weather too, which feels like a fair exchange to the people who live there.

On the far side of the water—less than a mile from where the crowd is now gathering—a line of buildings squats in the foothills. The trees directly in front of them have been ripped from the ground, the wood used to clad the lodges and make the vast carved sign that stands at the end of the long private drive—each letter as tall as a man.