Page 1 of Wild Swimming at Croftwood Lake
1
NORA HARTFORD WAS making the most of a perfectly still, bright morning. It was her favourite time of day. The sun had broken over the horizon and her mind was empty, focused only on the next stroke as she stretched her hands out into the water ahead of her, and pulled herself forward almost silently. Her breath hit the surface of the water producing clouds, reminding her that despite the sunshine, it was the end of January, and far from balmy weather.
Taking a moment to assess herself, making sure she wasn’t getting too cold, she decided that another loop around the small island in the middle of the lake would be fine. She carried on, past the small wooden dock that extended out over the water where she’d left her clothes, and around the side furthest from the woods which led to her cottage.
Suddenly, before she could fathom what was happening, something splashed into the water right in front of her.
‘Argh!’ she gasped, trying to wipe the water from her eyes while she frantically tried to stay afloat.
Once she had steadied herself, Nora could see that a dog was happily paddling around in front of her, not caring that it had almost launched itself right on top of her.
‘Tatty!’
Treading water, she looked beyond the edge of the lake to see a man in the distance striding towards her. He was tall and slim and wearing too much tweed for someone his age. Was he a farmer?
‘Tatty! Out!’ the man shouted and the dog obediently hauled itself out of the water and shook itself dry before running back to its owner, who was still some way away from the lake.
Nora fully expected him to carry on walking towards her, maybe shout at her for being in his lake, if it even was his lake, but he walked away, with the dog at his heels, and she realised that he probably hadn’t got close enough to see her. And he wouldn’t have expected anyone to be in there anyway, would he? That was a good thing. If it was his lake, what would she have said? It was all very well feeling brave about trespassing, but it was difficult to pass it off as an accident when the lake clearly belonged to someone. Perhaps this close call was a sign that she ought to seek permission from whoever owned it.
Having been interrupted, she’d spent too long in water that was barely more than a couple of degrees celsius. Swimming back on herself to the wooden platform, she felt for the bottom with her feet. With her back to the dock and her hands on the edge, she pushed out of the water and quickly pulled her neoprene socks and gloves off. Her kit was laid out ready and waiting so that she could get dry and warm as quickly as possible. Her frozen fingertips made this part tricky, but she was well practised and once the gloves were off, she pulled her swimming costume down, safe in the knowledge that there was no one else around to see anything, and dried herself vigorously with the towel. With the worst of the water away, she started dressing, pulling a dry bobble hat onto her head once she’d put her hoodie on. It was always hard to dry her legs enough to pull leggings and joggers on easily, and by the time she had, she was ready for a cup of tea. The last job was to wrap herself in her dry robe and pull her woolly socks on, then she sat cross-legged on the ground and poured a cup of hot tea from a flask.
Before today, the feeling that she was trespassing had been fading slightly with each visit. After all, what harm was she doing? She gazed out across the water, finding it incredible, as she always did, that she felt so compelled to jump into a lake when she found it hard to undress to get into a hot shower on a chilly day. But there was something addictive about it. Something that made it an enormously uplifting experience that always left her feeling invincible.
Nora had lived in landlocked Croftwood for a month, and just when she thought she’d go mad from missing the coast and her daily swims in the Clevedon marine lake, she’d found this lake. Her lake. Because until today, she hadn’t seen another soul.
She’d stumbled across it when she’d taken the wrong path on a walk through the woods. She knew in time she’d know the place like the back of her hand, but now she was still finding her way around and was yet to experience glimpses of familiarity. The lake had been such a lovely surprise that she noted exactly which path she’d taken to get there. Crucially, she’d clambered over a ramshackle dry stone wall that was probably supposed to be the boundary to somebody’s property. What may once have been a beautifully managed and manicured fishing lake had fallen into disrepair, and she intended to make the most of the fact that no one appeared to have any interest in it. A leisurely stroll around the perimeter, overgrown with reeds and sycamore saplings that had taken advantage of the fact that no one was watching, had informed her it was fed from a spring; not unusual since Croftwood was known for its natural spring water. And she could see just by gazing into its inviting depths that aside from the plant and leaf debris floating on the surface, it was as clean as a whistle.
So the very next day, she had decided she had nothing to lose by taking a dip. A frosty January morning might not seem the most appealing time for a swim, but Nora loved the cold. Not in general, but there was something about swimming outdoors in the cold water that made her feel amazing. In Clevedon, she’d been part of a group of women who met regularly to swim together, all finding that the cold water had some magical benefits. But here, for the moment at least, she was just happy to have found somewhere on her doorstep to satisfy her obsession, even if it was by herself.
Keen to see where the lake was in relation to her house, she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. It took a minute for the maps app to load since the signal wasn’t great. Nora peered at the screen until the blue of the lake appeared. She switched the view to a satellite image and zoomed out. Okay. So she wasn’t just trespassing on farmland. She was on land belonging to Croftwood Court. Perhaps that was the lord of the manor who’d been out with his dog. She giggled to herself, not sure why it was funny. But from the lake for as far as she could see, there were fields. How big exactly was this estate? It was hard to tell from the map, but as she zoomed out further, it spread to the north of Croftwood by what looked like miles. Well, she thought with a smile, this was the first time in ten days that she’d seen anyone, so chances are she would still have the lake to herself without anyone knowing. Could she email the lord and ask permission? Of course she could, but she quickly decided that she wasn’t going to, just in case the answer was no. Because what would she do then? Drive to Clevedon for a swim every day? She’d considered doing something like that before she’d discovered the lake. She’d swim, but she’d prepare something to say in case she got caught.
She finished her tea and packed up her things, deciding to walk a little further into the fields to see if she could glimpse the elusive Croftwood Court. From the map, it looked as if she’d be able to see it from the next-but-one field in front of her. As she walked, only now did her mind allow her to contemplate what the rest of the day might hold. And after the swim, it didn’t seem nearly as overwhelming as it might have done an hour ago.
As she reached the end of the second field, she could see signs that the hibernating meadows gave way to more formal landscaping further ahead. Hedges that were the boundaries between the fields were now clipped into something more shapely than the natural hedgerows closer to the lake. Nora ventured even further still and saw that beyond the hedge lay lawns. Lovely striped ones, even in winter. And they led towards the most beautiful manor house she could have imagined. It was brick built but had a softness and elegance that came from the smoothness and colour of the bricks, which were a dark caramel. What struck Nora the most was the multitude of ornate, twisted brick chimneys that rose out of the gabled roofs and were topped with delicate chimney pots. She was desperate for a closer look.
Forgetting that she was hoping to stay under the radar, she walked across the lawns towards the house. The chimneys were works of art. The clever brickwork screamed out to be admired, but what Nora really wanted to see were the chimney pots. From the age of the house, she knew that they’d have been hand-thrown by a master potter and that the fun the designers had had with the chimneys would be echoed in their crowning glory.
She was so busy gazing up that it took her a moment to cotton on that someone was watching her from one of the large mullioned windows. It was the man with the dog, so presumably he actually was the lord of the manor. Crikey.
Turning on her heel but determined not to run, in case it made her look more suspicious, Nora walked purposefully back the way she’d come. Hopefully, he would think she’d just taken a wrong turn. And hopefully he wouldn’t connect the fact that she was wearing a massive dry robe and a bobble hat with the fact that there was a lake in close proximity.
As mornings for Nora went, it had been eventful. By the time she emerged from the woods and had walked along the lane back to her cottage, she was ready for another cup of tea and a biscuit. She kept her dry robe on while she boiled the kettle and threw some logs into the wood-burner. Although the cottage was old, it had been refurbished so thoroughly that it was easy to keep it toasty warm without much effort at all. The old two-bedroomed cottage had been turned into a state-of-the-art one-bedroomed cottage with en-suite bathroom and dressing room just before Nora had bought it. Everything was fresh and beautifully finished. The walls were painted in a soft buttery cream colour and the exposed beams had been stripped back to the natural wood. The floors in the kitchen and lounge were large limestone flags, gently warmed by underfloor heating. Upstairs, the bedroom had a carpet that Nora’s feet sank into and, although she felt a dressing room was wasted on her, she loved the touch of luxury it offered, even if it was mostly home to the boiler suits she wore for her work as a potter.
Before she settled next to the fire to check her emails, she unzipped her dry robe and hung it on a hook next to the back door. Tea in hand, she padded into the lounge, sat in her beloved vintage Ercol armchair, and opened her laptop.
Nora had always been a potter, something that had terrified her parents when she first announced that the hobby she’d pursued as a teenager was a passion she was going to turn into a career. Her mother’d had the same passion for art but had followed the safer path of teaching rather than pursuing her dreams, and she had worried for Nora taking what she saw as an enormous risk. Inevitably, it had taken a few years of hard slog before she found the balance between producing what she loved to make and what she needed to produce to be commercial. Now, she had made a name for herself and had two parts to her business; a mass-market model where she designed pottery and had it manufactured for her in Stoke, and her exclusive one-off piece production, which she sold to galleries and high-end department stores across the world. But it was a constant battle to give enough of herself to each part of the business so that it ran smoothly and that was one reason she’d moved. Worcestershire was that much closer to Stoke than North Somerset was and what she gained in time from not having to travel so far, she hoped to pour into the business. Over the next few years, she hoped she could become more hands off on the mass-market side and spend more time doing what she loved: throwing pots.
Discovering the lake on her doorstep had felt like the universe underlining that she’d made the right decision about moving to Croftwood. Whatever she told herself about it being a more convenient location for work, she still had doubts about whether she’d made a knee-jerk decision in moving away from the place she’d called home for twenty years. But the lake, along with how quickly she’d fallen in love with her little cottage, seemed to be willing her to settle in. She just had to hope she hadn’t blown it by getting caught on the lawns of the manor house by the man in too much tweed.
2
ARCHIE PUT HIS teacup onto its saucer and left the breakfast table to take a proper look out of the window.
‘What are you looking at?’ His mother, Constance, the dowager Countess, paused in her efforts to clean out the insides of her soft-boiled egg and waited for his answer.
‘There’s somebody on the lawn.’
‘Is it Sebastian? Or one of the gardeners?’
