Walking the Anorak Way

Son the Younger and Ted - there they are, in the biscuit tin by the sea - needed exercise, so we decided to do two short walks on Dartmoor instead of one long one. 

Our first walk started at Hexworthy, just around the hairpin bend from the Forest Inn pub.  









Embarrassingly, given that I set my novel, Dart, in this very village during mediaeval times, I initially set off in completely the wrong direction. My excuse is that the walking book was extremely vague about the starting point of our two mile foray. We were soon en route proper, though, heading towards Swincombe with views over the valley to Bellever Tor and Laughter Tor.

 Before long we encountered the ruins of Dolly's Cot.  The uprights you can see are the jambs of the fireplace, where we sat and shared a couple of sandwiches. 

The details of Dolly Trebble's life are contradictory.  

She lived here with her husband, William - or maybe Tom - who might/might not have been a local miner.   (The story is further complicated by the existence of another Dolly's Cot on the East Dart at Brimpts.)  



Anyhow, the tale has it that the beautiful Dolly attracted the attention of the Prince Regent, and her husband moved her to this remote spot 'to protect her'.  The fact that 'Prinny' never visited Dartmoor has led some to believe that it was Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, who built Princetown and the prison, who was in pursuit of lovely Dolly.  Or maybe poor Dolly was just married to a jealous and possessive man.  We just don't know. 

And look, here's the bridge we walked across only the other day, while on our trek around Foxtor Mires, with the ruins of Swincombe Farm on the opposite bank - which, funnily enough, passed into Tyrwhitt's ownership and became part of his Tor Royal estate. 

So maybe Dolly's Cot wasn't such a great hiding place after all.  

Having reached the bridge, we wandered back along the River Swincombe in the direction of Hexworthy.  This area is called Gobbett Plain and is the site of a former 19th century tin mining operation, with an abundance of ruined buildings, abandoned and dried out leats, etc.  Note the amber water  - a common sight on Dartmoor dye to the abundance of peat which stains the streams and rivers the colour of black tea.  

Poor Ted had to stay firmly on the lead on account of the Dartmoor ponies, belted Galloway cattle and sheep that roam this part of the moor. 

The last stretch took us up the hill back to our car, with more splendid views of Bellever Tor and Laughter Tor. 








A little walk, perhaps, but one which, on my OS map on which I mark all my Dartmoor jaunts, joins a huge swathe of felt-penned territory on the west with that on the east, from Ringmoor Down, near Burrator Reservoir, arcing up and over to Merrivale, and on up to the Beehive Hut on the East Dart, then over to Ponsworthy and Holne Bridge, and down to Ryder's Hill and Buckfastleigh.  Which makes me a very happy anorak indeed.  

Skirting Foxtor Mires

Admiring Foxtor Mires isn't difficult.  They are reputedly the worst mires on the moor - so deep, in fact, that they can swallow a man wearing a top hat and sat on a horse.  

Luckily, Son the Younger and I hadn't brought any horses with us, or posh headwear.  Furthermore, we were planning to circumnavigate the inspiration for Conan Doyle's Great Grimpen Mire rather than traverse it.  We would be fine.

Having parked on the road to Whiteworks, we started out walk, the first stretch of which took us alongside Devonport Leat, at least until it disappears into a tunnel under Nun's - or Syward's - Cross.  Here is a sheep leap, one of many along its length.  

We then turned east and walked through extensive tin workings.  It's tranquil now, but once it would have been bustling industrial site.  

We then followed this handy wall for some way towards our most famous landmark of the day, Childe's Tomb. 

Looking up to Fox Tor

Looking north to Fernworthy and Hameldon on the horizon

A wall built over a stream

Ted showing an ardent interest in a couple of sheep

A short diversion from the wall and we were at Childe's Tomb.  

The following is an outline of the story of Childe the Hunter from my novel, Dart, told by my hero, Tobias, who has been caught out on the moor in a snowstorm:  

Of all Amyas’s tales, the one that chilled him most concerned Childe the Hunter. A Saxon lord or so the story went, he’d been overtaken by the sort of snowstorm Dartymore could conjure on a whim and, in a desperate attempt to keep warm, had slashed open the belly of his steed, stripping out its pulsing guts and crawling inside its corpse. Which was where monks from Tavystoke had found him days later, entombed in flesh and ice and quite dead. This very cross was said to mark the spot, and if Tobias wished to avoid his fate he’d turn straight back. 

The fact that the tomb part of the monument is a prehistoric kistvaen suggests that the body buried here was that of a tribal chieftain, not a Anglo-Saxon lord - and certainly not a Christian.  It's a great legend, though, which is probably why it has stuck.  

I confess I wrote about this part of the moor without having walked it.  I was familiar with it from studying maps and peering at it from the other side of the mire at Whiteworks, but I'd always felt a bit fraudulent, having never sat there, like my hero, in contemplation.

In fact, it was as atmospheric as I had imagined, and apart from the occasional bovine cough, totally silent now that the larks have stopped trilling their beautiful song ('Get-the-fuck-away-from-my-nest, get-the-fuck-away-from-my-nest ... ).

Our next task was to cross the River Swincombe - a shortlived yet beautiful river, which, after its journey through this great amphiteatre of mires, debouches into the West Dart, a little to the north, at the staggeringly gorgeous Sherberton Firs. 

Tobias has to cross the river in winter:

Keeping his chin tucked into his chest, he descended the western flank of the hill to the roiling river at its foot. Although it sprang only a short distance to the south, so much rain had flooded the uplands that its trickle had become a torrent, plummeting down the gully and all but submerging the boulders that served as a crossing. Tobias bent to scoop up a handful of water. Its bite was icy, freezing his fingers and making his teeth ache.   

For us it was easier - Son the Younger and Ted managed it quite easily - but it was pretty demanding on my arthritic knees and ankles.

By the ruins of an old settlement we disturbed a flock of crows.

Ter Hill

After a difficult section of the walk across tussocks that were quite boggy at times, we reached the track alongside Wheal Emma leat - now dry - and then the access path leading from Swincombe Intake Works.  

The easier going made it easier to appreciate the beauty of the broad river valley ...

... with views over to Bellever Tor and Laughter Tor, and skies to die for.  

Heading west, we passed the ruins of Swincombe Farm.

Then we took the track back to Whiteworks, crossing the Strane (a tributary of the Swincombe) which proved pretty squelchy and resulted in late-in-the-day wet feet.  

A trying last half mile uphill to the car on aching hips and knees was mitigated by the view looking back to where we'd been - beautiful, dangerous, wild Foxtor Mires.