It’s unusual to have guests on my side of the moors; for some weird reason I’m an isolated wild swimmer in wild swimming heaven, but today Helen is visiting from Exeter. We pick our way down from Hill Bridge to one of the closer pools. There’s a precipitous pebble shelf half way up, a microcosm of the beaches at Beesands and Slapton. We stumble over goose-egg stones and drop in to the deep water, tasting the peat and the spring. It’s twelve degrees, and the river has lost her winter turquoise tint. It feels right to float again in bronze. Because of my back injury, I’ve developed an upright doggy-paddle floating walk and can’t get close to the cascade, but Helen swims in and wafts through bubbles. The branches above hang bare above luscious, erupting banks.