All These Things I Will Give Thee ...

After lunch in the Kingsley room at the Church House Inn in Holne (where Charles Kingsley's father was vicar at the time of his birth), we went for a last little wander on Dartmoor before autumn.  

The moor, which wore its winter yellow for so long this year, is already laying a golden sheen over its summery green.  The bracken is on the turn, but I think it's more down to the heather and autumn gorse in full blossom, and the red-gold bilberry bushes.  

We set out from the car park at Combstone Tor and walked above the O Brook for a short way before heading south-east towards the cairns south of Horn's Cross.  A scad of rain blew over us like a cold-fingered ghost but didn't hang about for very long. 

I was more intrigued by the ravens - a large group of them.  Two flew in a pair, a few others made solo forays, but most flapped about together, rising and settling like bits of burnt paper. Maybe they were young birds yet to find a mate. 


Oh and the views were getting sublimier the higher we climbed.  This is looking east, down to where the River Teign meets the sea at Teignmouth.  (The biscuit tin is just over the most distant blue hill on the  left hand side of the picture.)

This is the view over the Dart gorge to Haytor Rocks, Saddle Tor and Rippon Tor on the skyline ...

... and this the view from Dartmeet across to Hameldon and the ridge of tors above Widecombe.  

And this is looking over to Venford Reservoir in the middle distance. 

These sheep were more interested in us ... or rather, Ted. 

Up on top of the ridge it was getting a bit boggy.  We picked our way over to the tin mine workings, where we could look over to Mardle Head with Ryder's Hill, Snowdon and Pupers Hill beyond. 

'Down over there,' I told the Northerner, 'is Chalk Ford', and we sat for a bit under sunny blue skies and watched desultory showers drift over the lowlands.  There wasn't even any need to bow down and the worship the Devil; all of it was ours. 

The big question now was had we walked off enough of our Homity Pie to manage a cream tea at Brimpts, near Dartmeet?  We decided we had, although I made a mental note to have a fast day the next day.  

So we picked our way back over the boggy bits and down the hill ...

... to Horn's Cross.  

After filling our faces with scones, thick yellow clotted cream and strawberry jam - in that order, obvs - all that was left of our Dartmoor holiday was to pull into the side of the road at Bennett's Cross above Postbridge and pick a sprig of lucky heather.  

With that luck, we'll be back before long. 

Cider, Pigs, Two Interesting Gates and A Dead Squirrel (Not Necessarily In That Order)

When Alice Oswald said during a recent reading in Bristol that her favourite spot on Dartmoor was Chalk Ford, my heart sank a bit.  Lovely it certainly is, but getting there involves a hefty climb one way or another, and the instant she said it, I knew that the Northerner, being an ardent admirer of Alice Oswald's poetry and a rookie Dartmoor devotee, would want to go there.  And so it proved.  So first we had to fortify ourselves in the Tradesmans Arms at Scorriton, where they sell a damn fine pint of cider. It's the deep rosy red colour of Thatcher's Cheddar Valley but it's proper dry scrumpy, tastes of cheese and is called Thompstone's. 

I've walked a lot around Chalk Ford, but managed to find a route up to the moor that was new to me, from Combe to Lud Gate - a nice sunken holloway, or green lane as they are usually called in Devon.  The idyll included a dead squirrel, however.  

It would have been lovely to walk out on the moor - my original plan was to explore Huntingdon Warren, coming back via Pupers Hill - but the clouds were mist, so we decided to stick close to the edges of the moor.  

The conditions made for beautifully moody photos, however. 

Just before Lud's Gate we encountered this very pleasing fence made of old wheels, at a place called Strole.  

And here is Lud's Gate itself.  

After all that climbing, the views from the moor were even more spectacular.  

The hill shining all goldy in a patch of sun was just where we'd been (with the sheep).  

The clouds were closing in so we pressed on downhill to Chalk Ford, ignoring some rather evil-looking cows that were intent on following us. 

Lovely Chalk Ford, where the little River Mardle leaves the moor

Oak tree at Chalk Ford ... 

... with epiphytic polypold ferns like little green flags

Then we merely had to return to Scorriton via the bridleway - a pleasant enough wander downhill though it's attrition when you're coming in the opposite direction.  

Today we encountered a deer and ... 

... a pigling on the loose ... 

... who clearly couldn't find his way home.  I tried to drive it into its field but it wasn't having it and Ted, who was outraged by all the grunting, started to get rather protective from other side of the gate on the path, so in the end I left it where it was. 

Coming back into Scorriton 

The pub in Scorriton was closed when we got back, as was the Church House Inn in Holne. We did get to see another splendid makeshift gate, however, this one made out of horseshoes.  

Then home to the biscuit tin by the sea with its bottle of Tequila in the fridge ...