On not getting to Watern Tor

Watern Tor was our destination. Tricky to get to on account of the bogginess of Gidleigh Common, it had eluded me for years. I'd seen it several times on the skyline at Scorhill stone circle, and really quite close at hand from Wild Tor (one of my favourites), although I had a long walk back the way I came at that point, and didn't press on to reach it. Yesterday, though, we were going to access it from Fernworthy Forest via the old fields at deserted Teignhead Farm. 

Except no one had told the Dartmoor weather gods when Son the Younger had his day off, and they were having a ciggie round the back of the bike shed. The smoke, or rather mist, blocked even the fabled view of Haytor rocks from the road as we ascended from Bovey Tracey.

We detoured to Hound Tor. I'd been hoping to see the beautiful sight of Dartmoor bluebells spreading over Holwell Lawns to Haytor in the distance, but this was as good as it got.

Hound Tor itself was murky too. (Somewhere up there is Son the Younger, waving his arms.) 

It wasn't without beauty, of course ... 

... but the views in all directions were non-existent. There was just the usual racket from the larks, and the crow's nest tucked into one of the outlying rock piles ...

... and this very vociferous stonechat. (There, perched on the highest sprig of gorse.) 

We made for Princetown, to have some lunch in the Plume of Feathers while we waited for the fog, which had been forecasted to clear by 9am, to clear.

It didn't.

We set off for Fernworthy Forest, and with that, everyone else got in on the act of Trying To Stop Us From Getting To Watern Tor. 

We parked, walked part way around the reservoir and then took a path through the forest, only to find that parts of it were shut off because of logging.   

In the end, that plus the relentless mist and rain led us to conclude that our open moor adventure was best left for another day. 

Instead, we opted to squelch around the rest of the reservoir. 

The South Teign

Bronze age hut circle

There were bluebells, after all. And lichen. And still only just blooming hawthorn blossom, which feels like a time-slip and would we all care to experience the month of May all over again? Maybe do things better this time.

Rowans starting to blossom

And it was OK. It's always Dartmoor calling the shots, after all, and sometimes it likes to remind mere humans of their place in the pecking order. 

And maybe we'll have better luck next time.

Halloween on Dartmoor

A late gig followed by a 5am wake up call and I found myself heading to Devon without my lovely anti-arthritis pillow and, more alarmingly, my extensive library of Dartmoor walking books.  'Never mind,' said my companion, 'you can buy one in the Tourist Information Centre in Postbridge'.  Except that when we got there, I discovered that I already owned all of them and baulked at paying £8 for a duplicate.  So we'd be making it up as we went along.  

First, though, a coffee in the East Dart Hotel and a visit to the bridges over a rather full looking river ... 

... and the pleasure of a chance encounter with copies of my novel, Dart, on sale in the post office, right in the middle of the moor and a few miles from where the story is set, in Hexworthy. (Apparently it's been a bit of a best seller in Postbridge this year.)

Then on up the road for a couple of miles where we parked near the pub and set out over Water Hill, which soon turned out to be very well named.  

Sloshiness notwithstanding, there were some grand views in all directions, back the way we'd come (such colours!) ... 

... and looking ahead to Meldon Hill near Chagford. 

 And given that the walk was of an ad hoc nature, it was great to come across the standing stone and very well preserved double stone row on Hurston Ridge.  

The top end of the stone row.

The end stone.

We headed for the drift lane past Metherall on the edge of Fernworthy Forest, the general murkiness of the day proving to be quite photogenic.  

After stopping for a time to watch a kestrel hovering against a background of darkly dripping conifers, we headed down the lane off the moor, Meldon Hill now less than a mile away.  

Then we mountaineered over a stile and negotiated the signposting around Lower and Higher Shapley, before heading back up onto the moor at Hurston.  

At times it was quite hair-raising with fields of cows to cross with Ted (Ted does not like cows) and paths that were more like rivers, complete with waterfalls.  It would appear to have rained a lot on Dartmoor lately.  

Back on the moor we leapt Hurston Water in a feat of derring-do, only to discover that the swollen stream was flowing right alongside the wall below the aptly named Lakeland and we had to cross back over again.  

Eventually we managed to cross it for a third time and gain some higher, drier ground.  

It was a bit rainy from time to time but still very beautiful in a wuthering sort of way.  

We hit the road at  Bennett's Cross, which dates from the 13th century and is one of my favourites.

 View of Cosdon Hill and Kestor Rock.   

And then up ahead loomed the welcome sight of the pub, the third highest - and reputedly the loneliest - in England.  

It being Halloween, we were relieved to see that despite having a spiffy new pub sign, it still goes by its old familiar name of the Warren House Inn, rather than the Slaughtered Lamb.   

Let's take a closer look ... ah yes, the Three Hares. Welcome to Dartmoor!