The legend of the Mermaid's Pool, on the slopes of Kinder Scout is well known. She is one of three mermaids that are resident in the Peak District and you can read about them all on our Mermaids in the Peak page. The following story is the imagined account of a meeting with this mythical being. It is written in style of a diary entry, from a Victorian gentleman; Owen Edward Simon Stanley, 16th Earl of Derby and Lord Stanley of Preston, who spends his days exploring myths, legends and strange occurences. Though it is a fictional account - no eye witness accounts exist - all other details are accurate, according to the legend.
I headed for the village of Hayfield, past the town of Castleton and hard by the side of Kinder Scout; the county’s highest peak. An impressive waterfall; the Kinder Downfall, races and foams down the side of Kinder Scout, not far from the village. What I was after though was a small mere, close to the Downfall, known locally as the Mermaid’s Pool.
This murky and unassuming body of water is reputed to be mystically linked to the Atlantic Ocean, by means of which I was unable to discover. This belief may be due to the fact that the mere is saline in nature - most unusual for one so far inland. As its name suggests, this pool is reputedly home to a mermaid. Such a belief here in the Dales is old, very old and may even hearken back to Celtic myth, as veneration of springs and bodies of water is still exceedingly strong in Derbyshire, albeit mostly under the sanitised guise of ‘well dressings’ and the like.
I arrived mid afternoon at the village of Hayfield, a couple of days before Easter. I was fortunate enough that Eastertide was late in April this year and spring was well on the way in the Dales. I had chosen the date of my visit to tie in with one of the annual dates that the legends maintained the Mermaid may be sighted: these being Easter Eve and Midsummer Eve.
I lodged at the local inn and found the locals to be at first somewhat reserved, but soon responded to an open and honest demeanour. These were plain speaking rural folk, who appreciated a man who spoke plainly in return. Upon earning some measure of their trust, they were more than happy to share their local legend with me.
As with the written records, there was some disagreement amongst the locals as to whether the Mermaid appeared on Easter or Midsummer Eve. However, this appeared to be of lesser importance to all gathered. What they did agree on was that the Mermaid’s ‘gift’ - should you see her - was something of a double-edged sword. Allegedly, should you lay eyes upon her then you would be granted eternal life; so far, so good. However, throughout this unending life, you would never know love again, so obsessed would you be with the image of the beauteous mermaid.
Most remarkable though was the story of a local man, one Aaron Ashton, who had died barely sixty years ago. Aaron was born in the village in the early part of the 18th century. Like many of his male contemporaries, Aaron worked on the local farms and hunted the fells. The locals remembered him as “A bold young man.” Aaron took up the King’s Shilling and was a soldier for some years, before returning to Hayfield.
A hale and hearty man, Aaron returned to the pastoral life after leaving the soldiery. However, upon his return to Hayfield, Aaron took to visiting the Mermaid’s Pool on a regular basis, and continued to do so for the rest of his life. The residents of Hayfield remarked on how youthful and vigorous Aaron remained, well into his later years. Whilst there is no great reveal of mystical proof, nor horrifying end to Aaron’s story, the truth, though seemingly mundane, is truly remarkable. Aaron was found dead in 1835, lain beside the banks of the Mermaid’s Pool. Though he looked barely older than a man in his early sixties, Aaron had died at the age of 104 years old! Perhaps one may ponder that this venerable age was as a result of a supernatural intervention?
For myself, I struck out late the following afternoon; allowing myself a good 3 hours of daylight to make my way up to the Mermaid’s Pool. The High Peakland was truly gorgeous at this time, with an early spring blessing its dales with colourful fecundity. I had made my way to the pool via the Kinder Downfall; an impressive waterfall which is said to run uphill under certain conditions, though not on this particular occasion.
My journey to the pool was an easy one and I remained blessed by clement spring weather. I arrived at around 4pm and made my small camp not far from the pool’s edge, after which, I took time to examine the pool and its environs more closely. I would be taking artistic licence too far were I to describe the pool as in any way an idyllic crystal-watered pond. On the contrary, at this time of year, when the purple heather has yet to blossom, the pool is surrounded by clumps of spear-like sedge plants and dingy brown tussocks of shrubby heather, all lurching inexorably to the pool’s edge, only to tumble into its impenetrable black waters. In short, the Mermaid’s Pool is as unremarkable as any other pond set in the peaty soil of the hill country.
I made my way through the encroaching vegetation to the very edge of the pool and proceeded to dip my hands into it. As one would expect, the water was icy cold; whether from the chill waters that ran down the fell to feed it or from some mystical source in the deep Atlantic, I was not about to conjecture. Although from above the waters appear a soulless black, the water I drew into my cupped palms was as clear as the springtime sky above me. I drew the draught to my lips and drank of it. Although not as salty as the seawater it is said to be, the water was indeed quite brackish and not something one would enjoy drinking in any quantity. I was thankful that I had at least brought my flask and that my thirst could at least be quenched - and warmed - by a good tot of rum, as the night drew in.
The sunset that evening was indeed a blaze of glory, sinking down to turn the western hills a molten shade of gold. But as the sun sank, so did the temperature. At this time of year, under clear skies and without the surrounding shelter of a town or city, cold and frost can lay claim to the ground very easily, even into early summer. I was pleased to have my thick woolen scarf and army greatcoat to snuggle down into. As the sun’s golden rays finally died and with no moon to lighten the firmament, the beauty of the nighttime sky revealed itself, as the countless stars of the Milky Way hoved into view.
I made myself a small fire, more for friendly illumination than warmth, and awaited what may or may not happen. As night wore on, not a breeze disturbed my watch and the only sounds were the small night creatures rustling the grass with their passage and the occasional screech of an owl, relentlessly pursuing its supper. Not a single breeze disturbed the land, as the frost drifted down.
I decided to investigate the pool, more to for something to do than any true needfulness. Though it was a moonless night, the whiteness of the frost and the brightness of the stars provided ample light to mark my way. As I skirted the edge of the pool, I noticed ripples forming and moving upon its obsidian surface, though there was still not a breath of wind to cause it. My rational mind suggested that it must be some small swimming creature, but there was no creature to be seen and the eerie ripples seemed to have no origin. This odd phenomenon continued for a few minutes and then stopped. I made my way back to my tiny camp and fed my fire some more.
I must have drifted into sleep at some point, for I found myself suddenly dragged into wakefulness. It was still dark, so it must have been sometime before 5am. I could not say what had awoken me so suddenly. It could have been the improbable splashing of the pool’s waters or the strange salty tang that seemed to assault my olfactory senses. Perhaps it was a hint of a ghostly lament drifting through the air or just the prickling on my skin that brought me to sudden awareness. I lurched to my feet, my animal instincts alerting me against I knew not what. I was instantly drawn by the sound of lapping water coming from the pool. It was like unto the sound of the wake that a boat makes, as it laps the riverbank like a hungry cat.
I straightened up and lurched towards the pool, stumbling through the thick heather that surrounded it. The surface of the water was quite agitated, yet still not a breath of wind disturbed the fellside. It was as if the water were being stirred from within and below, for nothing was apparent upon its surface to be creating the ripples and wakes that travelled back and forth across its once placid surface. Whether it was a trick of the light or the reflection of starlight upon water, I swore that I saw a flash of silver but a few inches below the surface. I had been reliably told that the pool had no fish, so I knew that was not what I had glimpsed.
I fell to my knees and scrambled through the tussocks of sedge and nascent heather to the very edge of the pool, in order that I may peer more closely into the eerily turbulent waters. The only illumination was - as it had been all night - the eldritch light of stars and the blanket of silvered frost that lay upon the land. I stared intently into the black mirror of the pool, seeing only my own reflection, wavering and distorting upon the rippling waters. As I stared at my warped features, trying to gaze through the swirling waters to what may lie below the surface, my features began to transform - or so it seemed. Perhaps it was something akin to staring too long at something and one’s eyes start to blur the image perceived into something else, but I swear this was entirely different. My very bone structure was changing; my square jaw line tapering into something finer, more feminine. My short cropped pale hair growing into lustrously swirling black tresses.
But it was the eyes that truly captivated me and enslaved me into immobility. Her irises coruscated between every imaginable hue of blue and green, seemingly afire with a watery flame, yet holding a sense of something far more ancient than I could comprehend. The face below the water started to rise slowly towards me or was I, in fact, leaning down into the water to be closer to it? It was impossible to tell, but, within an instant, I was plummeting into the pool’s now surging waters, flailing to right myself, as I was engulfed by blackness.
I lurched upright and took a great gasping breath of fresh peakland air, as the rising sun blurred my vision and brought tears to my smarting eyes. I was lying amidst my tiny campsite once more, just a few tinders of my fire guttering their final flame beside me. I was not drowning in the pool and there was no sign that I had even moved during the night. I stumbled upright and collected my few things together. I took a longing glance back at the Mermaid’s Pool, but its waters were as black and placid as nature dictated they should be. I turned towards the track back to Hayfield and, as I did, I fancy that I heard the ghost of a splash behind me. I left, glad that I had kept my vigil, but with a slight transient sense of loss that I had neither discovered my elemental nor a reason for such a belief.
[Editor’s Note: Whilst Stanley clearly considered his experiences at the Mermaid’s Pool to be some kind of dream or hallucination, it is interesting to consider that, whilst he had a number of lady friends throughout his long life, he never ever forged a long-lasting romantic relationship.]
© Simon Unsworth 2025