A poetry jaunt to Devon

On Saturday poetry took me to Teignmouth in Devon for the launch of Rosie Jackson's new collection 'Love Leans over the Table', at which I was reading two poems, so I decided to make a day of it and visit my favourite place, which is Dartmoor.

Because of needing my energy for the reading, I decided not to do much of a walk, but instead drove right across the moor from Tavistock to Ashburton, stopping off on the way at a couple of favourite places. 

The first of these was the car park below Cox Tor, where I parked to walk along the Grimstone and Sortridge leat that skirts Barn Hill on Whitchurch Common to Windy Post Cross. 

Beckamoor Brook

The aqueduct carrying the Grimstone and Sortridge Leat over Beckamoor Brook

The Grimstone and Sortridge Leat, with Vixen Tor in the middle distance

Clapper bridge over the leat

Apparently, there was once a smithy here, and this is a wheelwright's stone, the wheel and spokes being assembled on the flat surface, with the hub fitting into the dip in the middle. The rim of the wheel, which was made of iron, would then be heated on a forge, dropped onto the wheel and quenched with cold water, which had the effect of shrinking the rim to a tight fit.

Pregnant Dartmoor hill ponies

Windy Post (or Beckamoor) Cross, dating from the 15th century and probably replacing a much earlier cross, coming into view on the horizon.

Where the leat splits, originally to provide farms near Pew Tor and Moortown with water

I could see a crow perched on gorse over on Feather Tor, and that, combined with the arrival of a party of people led by a shouty man, was enough to send me scuttling over for a bit of a sit-down.

Pew Tor from Feather Tor

Looking back at Windy Post Cross, now being used as a scratching post by a black cow

A bunch of feathers from a ring-necked pheasant, some of them blood feathers; this didn't end well

After walking back to the car park, I drove on across the moor, turning right before Dartmeet to cross the West Dart at Hexworthy and stopping at Combestone Tor, which is conveniently near the road and provides fabulous views of the high moor and what goes, somewhat inelegantly, by the name of the Double Dart Gorge. 

A quizzical Dartmoor Blackface sheep

Looking west, with Longaford Tor and Bellever Tor on the horizon

Looking east

Hameldon Beacon, Honeybag Tor, Chinkwell Tor and Bell Tor, Sharp Tor, Haytor, Saddle Tor, Rippon Tor, Buckland Beacon

Dartmeet, centre, middle distance

Wild strawberry flowers

Then on to Shaldon and a quick change from moor mode to poetry mode in the ladies loos by Smuggler's Tunnel, the lane leading to which was full of primroses, violets and wild strawberry flowers. I was gasping for a mug of tea by this point, and hurried down to the Clipper in the hope of partaking while sitting on the jetty, but it had just closed; no matter, the Alice Cross Centre, where the launch of Rosie's collection was taking place, had, in  addition to a bar, a kettle and tea bags, so that was fine. 

And the evening was fine too; it was a privilege to be part of it among so may illustrious poets, not least Rosie.

Graeme Ryan, Jean Grimsey, Sue Proffitt, me, Helene Demetriades, Rosie Jackson, Wayne Smith, Ian Royce Chamberlain, and cellist Eliza Jacobs

Dr Blackall's Drive and the Double Dart Gorge

My plan was to amble up Sheepstor and enjoy far-reaching autumnal views over south-west Dartmoor and Plymouth Sound, but the fog which descended upon us at Princetown showed no signs of dissipating even as we descended the B3212 towards Burrator Reservoir.  We couldn't even see the tor let alone climb it.  So it was back to Dartmeet for a rethink.  

Then I remembered Dr Blackall's Drive, a former carriageway high above the Double Dart Gorge.  At that moment it was clear up at Sharp Tor and even if the mist encroached, the track was sufficiently well delineated - and far enough from the edge of the gorge - for us to walk back to the car park at Bel Tor Corner in safety.  

It wasn't long before we had our first glimpse of the white waters of the newly united East and West Darts powering through their rocky channel.  

And we could hear it too. As the story of Jan Coo tells us, the Cry of Dart is loud in these parts.  

Additionally, there was the lowing of cattle being herded from one field to another ... 

... and the occasional chomping of a hill pony ... 

... but the evocative cronks of half a dozen ravens patrolling the valley were my favourite sound.  

Here's a closer look. 

Looking back to Bel Tor and Sharp Tor. 

After the greyness of coastal Cornwall the day before and the thick fog just the other side of the moor, the brilliance of the autumnal colours in October sunshine seemed heightened. 

Hawthorn and rowan berries, bracken and gorse.  

Looking ahead to Buckland Beacon with the tower of St Peter's Church, Buckland-in-the-Moor in the middle distance.

On the return leg to the car it became obvious that the mist on Down Ridge was beginning to creep a little closer.  

We arrived back just as the clouds came down.  

By the time we reached Widecombe, it was getting quite thick.

There was nothing for it but to adjourn to the pub, eh, Ted?  

On the Roof of the World ...

Time for a bit of moor walking. We started at Dartmeet and were soon far from the crowds, toiling up Dartmeet hill on Yartor Down, stopping on the way at the Coffin Stone.  

Between the mid 13^th and the early 20^th centuries, all dead bodies in the Hexworthy and Dartmeet areas were carried to Widecombe for burial in the churchyard. On leaving Dartmeet, the pall-bearers would have to ascend this hill, and the Coffin Stone was handily placed to rest the coffin while they took a breather. Its distinctive appearance came about when a particularly unpleasant local was being taken for burial. The minute his box touched the stone, a bolt of lightening flew down from the heavens. The moorfolk dived for cover as it struck the coffin and engulfed it in flames. As the fire died down, they saw that not only had the coffin and corpse been consumed but the stone itself had been split in two. The moormen decided that this was a sign from the Almighty, who was clearly not going to permit such an evil man to be buried in hallowed ground, and went home, thankful not to have to carry their load any further.

Our initial waymark, Sharp Tor, all gleamy with blossoming gorse, soon came into view.

To reach it, we walked around the head of the valley, crossing the infant Rowbrook (rhymes with cow).  The skies were huge.  

We were now on the roof of the world, looking over to Haytor Rocks, Saddle Tor and Rippon Tor ... 

... the double Dart Gorge ...

... Combestone Tor, sunlit in the middle distance ... 

... and back the way we'd come, to Yar Tor.  

It was good to reacquaint myself with one of my favourite trees, a thorn sprouting improbably from a crack between rocks. 

  

On to Rowbrook Farm, to ask permission to cross their land to reach the River Dart, along which we would return to Dartmeet.  I was excited as, like the Coffin Stone, the farm has folklore attached, namely The Cry of Dart.

Here the sound of the River Dart in the gorge can be heard plainly.  Sometimes it sounds like a human voice. If you hear it, beware, for the Dart requires a human sacrifice every year and will call its next victim when the time falls due.  

One lad, Jan Coo, who worked at the farm centuries ago, was convinced he heard the river calling his name. One stormy night he heeded the call and was never seen again. 

Unfortunately our luck failed at this point as there was no one at home.  We had to abandon our proposed route and instead crossed the brook further up the valley to contour around the hill, past the suds of this sheep. 

Instead of walking alongside the Dart, we caught occasional glimpses of it in its gorge.  

Here the West Dart, with stories of Crow Tor and Wistman's Wood ...  

... rushes to mingle with its twin from the East, where we sat and paddled, undisturbed by all the tourists at the car park a couple of hundred yards upstream, who visit Dartmeet and yet never actually see it.