I wrote this piece as part of the Wrexham Writers’ Group anthology, Love Letters to Wrexham, but it sits here because of its mention of the earlier Tuttle Street pool in Wrexham where, it turns out, in the prequel to the Jack Telford novels (working title, Headlines From The Grave) Jack took his morning swims there while working as a cub reporter for the Rhos Herald during 1934. Here it is…
There are certain things you have to understand if you’re going to survive in any swimming pool environment. The principle thing, of course, is to avoid drowning whenever possible.
I first saw Wrexham’s “new” pool in 1981 when I moved to Wrexham. By then, it had been in operation for just over ten years. It was, and still is, a pretty unusual sight – a “hyperbolic paraboloid” roof. Swooping, curved concrete, like a giant manta ray with a wingspan bigger than 150 feet.
It replaced the “old” pool in Tuttle Street, Wrexham’s first indoor swimming baths, built back in 1901, when it became home to Wrexham Swimming Club – still the oldest swimming club in North Wales.
I didn’t know the Tuttle Street pool but, recently, I came across a copy of the Wrexham Leader Commercial Directory – 1934/35, and here’s what it said about the “Wrexham Corporation Baths” at Tuttle Street and its opening hours:
Summer Season (April 1st to October 31st)
Swimming Baths (Gents): Daily 8 a.m. to 8 p.m.
Swimming Baths (Ladies): Mondays 1 p.m. to 8 p.m. Tuesday 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. Wednesdays 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Thursdays 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. Saturdays 8 a.m. to 12 noon.
Mixed Bathings (Subject to Regulations): Wednesday 4 p.m. to 8 p.m.
Admission: 6d
Reduced prices for schoolchildren
Private Baths, 6d; Foam Baths, 2/6
For the rest of the year – at least, in the 1930s – between November 1st and March 31st, it was Plunge Baths and Private Baths only, the main pools closed.
And, though I did not know Tuttle Street, this was almost identical to the old Victorian Corporation Baths at Balliol Road in Bootle, Liverpool, where I grew up. The same changing rooms alongside the pools. The “boys’ pool” deeper than the “girls’ pool”, but the “girls’ pool” a bit bigger than the “boys’ pool”. The joys of those Mixed Bathing sessions, regardless of being subject to similar regulations designed to preserve moral standards. The rigours of learning to swim. The sheer ecstasy of managing to swim your first full length of the pool.
In my own case, the rigours of learning were made worse by the fact that, not having much money, my mother economised a little by knitting my bathing trunks. After the first few seconds in the pool, attempting to swim meant dragging along pretty much my own body weight of water soaked into the heavy, dark blue wool.
Yet, I shared an equal nostalgia for those old Victorian and Edwardian pools as I encountered among the “old guard” when I started swimming at Wrexham Baths in the early-80s.
‘Shame they closed Tuttle Street, it is! Not the same, this place, it’s not.’
Well, they were right, of course. How could it be the same? Apart from anything else, the new complex was blessed with that deep, deep diving pool and those high, high diving boards. But it was the local baths, and when I wasn’t at work – occasional Saturday or Sunday mornings, there I’d be; sometimes with the kids; sometimes for a serious swim.
But it really only became a second home to me after I retired, in 2008. By then, it had been transformed. Threatened with closure and demolition on more than one occasion, the place had undergone a huge refurbishment and re-opened in 1998 by Queen Elizabeth II, now under its new name – Wrexham Waterworld.
The diving pool is replaced by a leisure area with a long water chute, rubber ring ride; there’s a lazy river rapids; and a geyser pool or hot tub. The main pool is adapted to suit various lengths and types of swimming competition. The main pool also now accommodates serious lane swimming at decent hours each day. And that, really, is where my love story begins.
I had retired, yes. But I knew I needed to keep in shape, and swimming at Waterworld was an obvious option. It didn’t take long before I was swimming 80 lengths (2 kilometres) maybe two or three times each week. Sometimes more. Apart from keeping in shape, however, I’d also taken up a second career – writing thrillers and crime novels with historical backgrounds. So, a new routine: writing for a couple of hours in the early morning; then, off to the pool and thinking about plots and characters while swimming my lengths; and, after the pool, more writing at one of our many fine independent coffee shops in the town centre! Idyllic.
Slowly, however, I realised that I was being drawn into an unfamiliar community – Wrexham Waterworld’s answer to the Aristotelian Society. All those amateur philosophers. And, why not? Swimming, after all, has its very own reputation for great aphorisms. Here are just a few of my favourites:
All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath. (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
The man who is swimming against the stream knows the strength of it. (Woodrow Wilson)
Only when the tide goes out do you discover who’s been swimming naked. (Warren Buffett)
This life is like a swimming pool. You dive into the water, but you can’t see how deep it is. (Dennis Rodman)
My first introduction to Waterworld’s philosophers occurred when I discovered one of the other regulars scrutinising my style with a critical eye – and then stopping me for a quick lecture. Yorkshire accent, and apparently a veteran swimming star from his home county, long-since settled in Wrexham.
‘Tha’ front crawl’s not so bad, lad. But tha’ breast stroke – oh, dear!’
So, he taught me how to do the classic thing of covering the same distance but using half the number of strokes – and half the amount of energy. Pull. Breathe. Kick. Glide. Eric was also a keen supporter of Everton and Wrexham AFC. In those days, you had to be philosophical about life to support either one. But, both?
‘Tha’ll get there,’ Eric would say. ‘Patience is a virtue, lad.’
Supporters of Everton and Wrexham know a lot about patience; though, of course, I always preferred Ambrose Bierce’s thoughts on the subject:
Patience – a minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue.
Yorkshire Eric introduced me to more of the regulars – like Stephen, to whom he was teaching swimming skills from scratch. Stephen had a spinal problem and struggled even to get into the pool but, in the years I knew him, he overcame adversity and went from being barely able to swim a single length to thrashing his way through 70 or 80 lengths, and equally competent in breaststroke, front crawl and backstroke. In fact, he became so competent that he, himself, eventually became a swimming instructor. Sadly, that was not long before Stephen’s infirmities finally defeated him. I was away at the time and missed the funeral, but I still treasure the memories of our sessions together.
Normally, we’d finish our lengths at about the same time, and then would lounge in the water, like the bath house denizens of Ancient Greece or Imperial Rome, or a Moorish hammam, and turn over the moral questions of the day: our respective views on the teachings of St. Augustine; our favourite Monty Python extracts; our limited understanding of particle physics and the Higgs boson particle; our shared opinions about the genius of Bob Dylan’s songwriting; and our beliefs about the meaning of life in general.
Our small team was eventually joined by Jakki – Mrs Tumble Turn, as we named her for her stylish execution of that manoeuvre. Jakki had swum in pools across the world, but was happy to confirm that Wrexham’s Waterworld was the most egalitarian of all those she’d known. Egalitarian. Yes, indeed.
And, then, there was Roz, whose partner, Nick, was related to the journalist, Henry Buckley, who had written the astonishing The Life and Death of the Spanish Republic. I’d read extensively about the Spanish Civil War, but I’d never discovered this one. It turned out to be one of the best things I’d ever studied on the subject. So, we ended up with our philosophy group immersing itself in that conflict, actually phase one of the Second World War.
The group continued to grow, different members meeting up at different times, on different days. Eric usually tried to avoid Monday mornings, when the “water walkers”, as he called them – non-swimmers exercising to the strains of loud disco music – enjoyed their own sessions in the trainer pool. Eric couldn’t stand the noise. But I became quite fond of timing my swimming strokes to the rhythm of ABBA’s Voulez-Vous and the occasional bit of salsa.
Most of us were creatures of habit – our favourite changing lockers and irritability whenever some “newbie” had occupied it before us.
We shared jokes at the expense of the “tomatoes”, the blokes – always blokes – who’d obviously just returned from Marbella or Tenerife and had done a bit of swimming there, determined to carry on, now they were back in the UK. A tender shade of sunburn red. But they rarely appeared again for a second session.
There was, of course, the sensory overload whenever the schools turned up for their lessons, mingled with our delight that so many local kids were able to use the facility; that, and the mystery of how many items of clothing they managed to leave behind. On at least two occasions I remember, there were pairs of boys’ shoes abandoned in the lockers. How had the lads in question not noticed? Or their teachers?
Then, in March 2020, Covid struck. The first shutdown came, of course, in March 2020. I understood the reasons for shutdown, certainly – simply to slow down the rate at which the pandemic might spread, to stop our already overstretched NHS resources from collapsing entirely. But, on the other hand, I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d feel safer than up-to-my-neck in the pool’s chlorine-disinfected waters. The second lockdown came, after a brief respite, in November of the same year, with those tougher Tier 4 restrictions.
By the end of April 2021, we were back in the water, but now with restricted sessions, aquatic social distancing, and allocated lockers so these could be properly cleansed after each use. Masks to be worn everywhere except when actually swimming.
The pandemic had taken its toll, of course. A few of our regulars never came back at all. Some of us survived, though badly affected by Long Covid symptoms – including one of the staff members.
But most of us, I’m pleased to say, four years later, are still here. Still swimming. The philosophy group is a bit depleted, but debate is still sparked, whenever there’s time, about the various charity swims in which some of us are occasionally involved. And perhaps it’s the aftermath of Covid, but we’re regularly impressed by the staff for Freedom Leisure – the Trust presently responsible for the pool and the gym facilities – and the support they give to swimmers with disabilities.
At the time of writing, in the summer of 2025, the pool premises have recently been designated as a Grade II listed building. Among the reasons for the listing is this: “Its design reflects the booming demographics and technological optimism of Wales in the late 1960s.” Wrexham’s booming demographics? Yes, definitely. But the city’s optimism is far more than just technological. Maybe it’s best summed up by the Swimming Club I mentioned at the beginning. In existence for well over 100 years. A history of success, being recognised as the top team in North Wales almost every year since 2015, and winning the Arena League Premier Division B Final in 2018.
But Waterworld never stands still. It adapts to the world, whenever the world changes. Like Wrexham itself. It will continue to help many of us keep our heads above water, to keep us fit enough to save us from drowning in an ever-growing pool of difficult times.
Copies of the full anthology, Love Letters To Wrexham, are available online or from anywhere in Wrexham that sells books!
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