Poetting in Totnes, plus a detour to Dartmoor

Having missed out on driving Son the Elder to Crewkerne last week - and enjoying a day fossicking around Dorset while he roboteered - because of waking up in the morning to the flattest of flat tyres that Could Not Be Pumped Back Up (and needed replacing), I was relieved to get safely down to Devon for my reading in Totnes a few days later. First, though, a stop on Dartmoor, my heart's home.

Hound Tor

Looking over to Hayne Down

I chose to visit Hound Tor, hoping that through the miracle of magical thinking, the late-flowering bluebells that cover the Down and Holwell Lawn might somehow be out, but as I suspected, I was just a bit too early to witness that glorious lavender haze that seems to float over the moor when they're in full bloom.

A few were just beginning to show their faces, though, along with heath milkwort, spring cinquefoil and marsh lousewort, which were lovely to see.

View across the Beckabrook to Black Hill, Grea Tor, Smallacombe Rocks, Haytor, Holwell Tor, etc

It was very warm for April, despite the breeze, so I had a bit of a sit-down on a rock. Up ahead a deer was grazing, and down in the valley, the cuckoos were shouting to each other.

The deer is in the middle distance, against a patch of green

Grea Tor 

Looking from Haytor and Holwell Tor to Saddle and Rippon Tors

It was then nearly time to leave, so I wandered back through the rocky outcrops of Hound Tor.

Looking back towards Haytor, you can see a face in profile in the rock

Looking up to Easdon Tor, with Hayne Down in the middle distance

Then down down down to Totnes, where a poster of me and my fellow-Bristol-poet-and-reader, Tom Sastry, greeted me on the door of the venue, which was the Barrel House and very fabulous indeed. I spent some time staring in every direction, open-mouthed.

Julie Mullen was our MC, and she'd put together a great bill, but first she read some of her own arresting poetry.

Then the first of two sets by the fantastic Bulgarian vocal group, Gora Ensemble, who were mesmerising ... 

... and an excellent set of funny-but-deadly-serious poems from Tom Sastry, reading from his new collection, 'Life Expectancy Begins to Fall'. 

And me, I read too, from 'Love the Albatross'. Here's an accidental selfie that couldn't have been better composed if I tried. 

It was so good to meet poets I'd only previously been friends with online, as well as catching up with real life mates, including my old friend Bob Mann, whom I've known for years and accidentally lost touch with when his computer died. Firmly back in contact again now, thanks to the poster on the venue door.

Then it was back home up the M5 and into bed at 1am, my five hours' sleep before the alarm went off leaving me to a zombie for most of the next day, but a small price to pay for a precious few hours on Dartmoor and a gig I'll never forget. 

Blue Remembered Bells ... and Tradewinds at Scorriton

The reason I love Dartmoor's bluebells is that oceans of them grow out in the open, before the bracken starts its invasion, and they are a sight to see.  I don't always manage to time my visits properly, however.  For a start, you can never be sure quite when these great tides are going to appear.  In early May 2007, I remember wading through them with two of my children in the Beckabrook valley, yet in 2010 it was June when I saw them rolling in waves down the strip lynchets at Challacombe.  And since then, with the exception of the bluebell woods around the edges of the moor, I've missed them altogether. 

So it was with heart in mouth that I looked towards Grea and Hound Tors from the Bovey Tracey to Widecombe Road, for if you are going to see them anywhere, it's there. And yes, a faint blue haze at Emsworthy!

Not that all patches of blueishness were flowers ... 

... but most of them were, and they were stunning. 

Haytor Rocks

Rippon Tor, far left 

Looking back over Holwell Lawns

  

Witches' Butter on dead gorse

Looking over to Hayne Down

Grea Tor

Haytor Rocks and Holwell Tor

There were other beautiful sights on our walk like the crows flying to and from the noisiest nest I've ever heard on Hound Tor, and the ominous clouds that made for such stunning skyscapes passing over without raining on us (much), and the lovely mug of tea we had at the Hound of the Basket Meals, but today the bluebells had it, and not just on the eastern edge of the moor either.

Here they are at Challacombe ...

and on the steep slopes running down to Sherberton Firs ... 

... and on the banks of the West Dart ...  

... and at my much loved Hexworthy, where I set the main action of my novel, 'Dart'. Did my family living there in the 14th century see them like this?  I hope so.  

The day didn't end with bluebells, however, as a chance meeting with Bristol poet and friend Hazel Hammond in Shaldon the day before had reminded us about Tradewinds, the monthly open mic run by Susan Taylor and Simon Williams at the Tradesmans Arms in Scorriton.  (Hard to resist even without the promise of a pint of my favourite Thompstones cider.)  

Not having come to Devon prepared to read poems, I had to copy a couple out legibly by hand (surprisingly onerous when you are used to tap-tapping on a laptop and then printing them off in a large enough font to read without resorting to glasses).  I chose one I wrote last year about a dead mole at Heaven's Gate and another about Mahala Northcote, who drowned herself at Chagford Bridge in 1867 - a poem in two voices and the first time I'd read it in public. I especially loved to hear other poets reading their poems about Dartmoor, which has sustained my own writing so generously over the years, and Simon's come-all-ye singing at the start of the evening almost made me weep, as it could have leapt straight out of the pages of 'Dart'.  

Unfortunately we didn't stay till the end on account of Ted being a little restive after a time, it being his first poetry reading, but I hope we can revisit another time.  

In Which I Complete The Ten Tors ...

... well, not The Ten Tors, obviously.  More A Ten Tors.  And over ten miles, rather than 35, 45 or 55.  And without carrying me tent and cooking utensils.  And as it happened, possibly only nine tors.  Or eight.  But onerous enough for arthritickal old me.  

We were very brave, though, because the forecast was sunshine and showers and there were definitely lots of the latter.

Here's our starting point - Saddle Tor on the eastern edge of Dartmoor, with our ultimate destination, Haytor Rocks, rearing up behind (this being a circular walk).





I'm ashamed to say that this was the first time I'd bagged Saddle Tor, having driven past it 160,000 times. It's quite high and far more impressive than it looks from the road.

This is the view looking over to Hound Tor and, in the middle distance to the right, Grea Tor - two of our later total of ten-ish tors.  It looked relatively bright over there ... not so where we were.  Five minutes into our walk and it was raining.  

Our second tor was Top Tor.  Here's the view looking over to Tor number three, Pil Tor.

And here comes the rain (although with the stiff breeze on top, it didn't hang about too long). 

 Our next stop was the ridge of tors dominating the skyline above Widecombe.  (The vegetation has been deliberately burnt to encourage new growth. It's called swaling, and it's legal, controlled and happens from October to the end of March.)

And here they are: Bonehill Rocks, Bell Tor, Chinkwell Tor and Honeybag Tor, the first three of which can be seen in this photo.  

The authors of the walking book I was using weren't counting Bonehill Rocks as one of the ten tors, which seems silly as they're granite outcrops and we had to climb over them to get to Bell Tor.  I resolved to include them.  Eleven Tors, then. 

Looking back from Bell Tor to Bonehill Rocks, with Top Tor and Pil Tor on the horizon

Looking south  

A raven on one of the cairns on Chinkwell Tor

Someone's been playing about with the final resting places of our tribal forebears. Or it might be art.

And look, it's clearing up in the east.  

Ted, ears a-blowing in the wind

View over to Hayne Down from Honeybag Tor, with Bowerman's Nose just visible on the left hand slope

From Honeybag Tor (which is one of my favourites), we descended to the track below the ridge and followed it round past Bonehill Rocks, eventually leaving it to climb up to Holwell Lawn, which, contrary to its name, is just another tract of moorland.

From here, we had great views over to Haytor Rocks, but first we had to bag Grea Tor and Hound Tor.


In fact, our route only took us close to Grea Tor (another of my favourites, it has to be said), rather  

than touch it, which made me wonder whether we were only walking nine tors (plus Bonehill Rocks, which might make it ten), but if passing close is good enough for the authors of the walk book, it was good enough for me. 

At Hound Tor we stopped for a couple of mugs of tea in what proved to be the final shower of rain of the day, and very good (the tea) was too. 

Hound Tor always reminds me of a great granite ship sailing the choppy uplands. From here we walked down to the abandoned mediaeval village of Hundetorre, one of the most poignant sites on the moor.  


  

This is one of the longhouses, viewed from the shippen end, where the livestock would be kept.  The other end is where the people would live, and you can see a couple of steps leading to a tiny, shared bedchamber.    

And this is the shippon. Longhouses were built into hills, with the animals' quarters at the bottom end so that the slurry could drain out - that's what the channel in the middle of the space is for.  




Hundetorre was abandoned in about the mid-14th century.  It could have been that its inhabitants died of the Black Death, or they might have left on account of there being vacant farms on lower lying, easier ground.  

In any event, it was visiting here many years ago and wondering about the people's fate that made me write 'Dart', my novel about people living on the moor during the time of the Black Death.  

And on down down down into the valley and over the Beckabrook via the clapper bridge ...  

... and up up up through the woods and over the clitter-strewn hillside ... 

... until we could see right up to Cosdon Hill on the skyline, at the very northern edge of the moor, and Meldon Hill and Easdon Tor, all in a row.  

At this point we were supposed to divert along the granite tramway to Holwell Tor and quarries, our ninth tor on the list, but we were just about wheezing by now so we decided to adopt the Grea Tor approach and admire from a small distance.

Which might mean we only bagged eight tors plus Bonehill Rocks.  But frankly my dear, after all that climbing, we didn't give a damn anymore, so headed straight for Haytor instead.  

View from Haytor Rocks ...

... and down to the mouth of the River Teign












Melancholickally - and these sorts of days always have to have a moment of melancholy in 'em - the ice cream van had vacated the upper car park by the time we passed. No matter, we reached the car at Saddle Tor and headed for the pub ...