In the middle of a field in Kent, there is a tent. Inside the tent, there is a large reinforced tank, four feet by eight feet, and filled with water. And inside the tank is a mermaid.
This is Mermaid Emmy, and she is exactly what you would think a mermaid looks like: a woman with a human torso, a shell-based bikini, and rainbow-coloured fins adoring a long scaly tail. She is smiling and waving underwater, hair flowing elegantly as if in a shampoo commercial, eyes comfortably open. The real deal. A crowd gathered to see her shyly wave. ‘It’s an //actual mermaid,’ one observer coos. Mermaiding – the practice of dressing up, swimming underwater, and performing as the mythical mammal – has exploded in popularity in recent years, buoyed in part by the 2023 Little Mermaid reboot and an obligatory Netflix documentary (Merpeople). But despite the UK’s miles of coastline and storied history of mermanic folklore, British mermaiding remains an incredibly niche and prohibitively expensive lifestyle.
Fascinated by these obsessive, idealistic water nymphs who think it’s better down where it’s wetter, I found myself headed to the sleepy Kent village of Birchington just off the A229 one soggy September afternoon, to attend the Renaissance Fair UK: an event which sits somewhere in the Venn diagram between history nerds, fantasy cosplayers and real ale drinkers. I’m not here for the medieval jousting, crystal shops or D&D covers bands – I’m here because it is one of the few places in the UK (along with private parties and underwater photography shoots) where professional mermaids can ply their trade.
A small and curious crowd of cosplayers and kids have already gathered at the mermaid tent when I arrive for the afternoon performance. When the curtain opens and Mermaid Emmy is revealed, an audible hush descends. A small girl wearing fairy wings is awestruck. A baby stops crying. Even a passing pirate briefly puts down his vape pen. The magic spell works. Mermaid Emmy never stops smiling. She happily poses for photographs, playfully speaks to someone underwater on her ‘shellphone’, and even stages a game of Play Your Cards Right.
‘Honestly, I couldn’t see a thing,’ Mermaid Emmy tells me after the show, returning to human form in a Dryrobe. Visibility is never easy for these goggle-less performers, especially if chlorine is involved. ‘After a while, your eyes just get bloodshot,’ she says. And that’s only one of the occupational hazards. Swimmer’s ear and other waterborne diseases are not uncommon. “I had a sinus infection a couple of weeks ago,” Emmy tells me. ‘Really horrible. And at Crystal Peaks shopping centre the other week, my skin went pruney and blue.’
‘We did a seven-hour drive to get here,’ notes Emmy’s stablemate, Mermaid Finderalla, who will later tour the fair being while dragged around in a bathtub. ‘There’s a lot of blood, sweat and tears behind all of the glamour.’
While the United States – with its Esther Williams ‘aquamusicals’ heritage and oceanic coastal culture – boasts a thriving mermaiding community, things are tougher here. ‘It’s harder to get into in the UK than in America,’ says Emmy. ‘The climate makes a huge difference. It’s hotter there, so there’s more chances to go for a swim on a weekend, and more people have pools. Whereas in the UK it’s kind of drab and dreary. A lot of pools here don’t allow swimming in tails, either.’
That doesn’t stop wannabe sirens looking to be – to paraphrase The Little Mermaid — part of that world. ‘Recently bought a tail and want to swim with other people,’ reads a typical recent post on the subreddit /r/mermaiding. ‘Is there a wider UK community or meets that happen?’ The national scene seems quite piecemeal, though a few websites and apps such as MerMapp fill the gaps to connect lonely merfolk.
