One woman's wild swimming adventures in the west country

Crazywell Pool

Crazywell Pool is overflowing down the Gurt, smooth and black and, according to local legend, deeper than the combined length of the bell-ropes from Walkhampton Church. We swim through opaque water, the cloudy sky reflected in its rippled surface. There is a layer of warmth on top, but the depths are cooler, catching dangling feet and hands.  Crossing the centre of the pool, I swim above the spring and am iced by a wintry blast while the sun sneaks through and warms my head.


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