My Own Private Wyoming

First thing Thursday morning the sunlight through the gap in the curtains was doing something interesting to the half line from U A Fanthorpe's BC:AD that I painted on the wall last week. 

And since it is written that the British Isles are permitted only one sunny day per week throughout August, I packed Ted dog in the front passenger seat footwell and headed for Dartmoor.

I had a hankering to see Double Waters again - the spot in the far west of Dartmoor where the River Tavy and the River Walkham meet. So we parked at Magpie Bridge outside Tavistock and set off.

The Walkham valley is a bit magical.

I was reminded of this when my camera took a photo of its own accord. I've no idea how it did this, but the result shows promise. (I'm pretty sure it's my head and not Ted's arse, though he is still moulting and shaggy-looking.)

It's a bit of a scramble down to Grenofen Bridge. Every now and then the path by the river peters out so you climb the muddy, stony bank to a higher alternative, only for the original, idyllic path to open up again about ten yards later.

There did seem to be a lot of downed trees. 

Past Grenofen Bridge we were on familiar ground, though I hadn't been there for almost 11 years. It's sylvan and gorgeous ...

... though there are also plenty of reminders of the river's industrial past, such as this revetment or retaining wall which supports the track into the old quarry. 

West Down Mine Chimney. There were at least six mines here in the past.  The most famous, probably on account of its name, is the Virtuous Lady Mine.

But the river always refocuses your attention as it tumbles over rocks and pools in hollows. 

And all this to ourselves. Almost. 

Eventually we reached a spot where the river runs tight around the base of a cliff. You can only follow it further by climbing a steep track and passing through a cleft in the rock ... 

... and just like that, you're in the valley of the River Tavy and there are two rivers becoming one below you. This is Double Waters.







Sitting on a handy milestone, I remembered that 11 years ago the rock and the two valleys had reminded me of something from my childhood, but I hadn't been able to recall what it was. But having recently reread all of Mary O'Hara's stories about Ken McLoughlin and his horses in Wyoming, I knew this time: it was like that episode at the end of Thunderhead Part III where Ken dynamites the pass into the Valley of the Eagles so that Thunderhead and his mares can't escape from their place of safety.

I watched the two rivers for a while - the Tavy the stiller of the two, the Walkham fretting over rocks as it loses itself in its neighbour's waters. 

Our return route was over Roborough Down. On the way I kept an eye out for wild boar, which were big news in the area ten years ago but seem to have gone deep undercover since.

I also looked out for adders because I'm not sure Ted doesn't know not to sniff at them and he sniffs at a lot of things on Dartmoor.

Just about the only thing we saw, however, was a buzzard high overhead and something that scurried into our path and then departed as quickly and insubstantially as a blown leaf.

As we climbed out of the woods, that glorious ridge of tors to the north came into view: Cox Tor, Roos Tor, Great Staple Tor, Great Mis Tor, and King Tor.  And I had an inkling then as to why Dartmoor started to mean so much to me during my childhood.

I don't think it was so much my father's annual road trip - from Haytor Rocks to Widecombe-in-the-Moor to Dartmeet to Princetown and finally Postbridge - as my imagination: reading about far grander landscapes I'd never have a realistic chance of seeing for myself, and finding an echo in my own, more modest wild place. Dartmoor, with its hills and its loneliness and its wild ponies, is my Never Summer Mountains, my Valley of the Eagles, my green grass. And if we're going to bring that bloody red pony into it, it's my own private California too.

A Three Hares Pilgrimage

Though I've done it already - visited all the Three Hares churches in Devon, that is.  Plus the stained glass in the Castle Inn, Lydford and the roof bosses in the chapel of Cotehele, over the border in Cornwall, and in Selby Abbey, Yorkshire.  Yup - been there, done that, written the poem.  

However, now that Dru has relocated onto NB Eve on the Kennet & Avon, space is at a premium and she's decided that some of her work must tie up its goods in a red and white spotted handkerchief and go out into the world to earn its keep.  So I offered to drop some of her beautiful Three Hares postcards into each host church in and around Dartmoor, while I was on holiday in Devon, as a free-gift-cum-advertsing-campaign rolled into one - or card-bombing, if you prefer.  

 There are 17 churches with mediaeval carved roof bosses depicting three hares running in a circle, each sharing a single ear with their neighbour so that it looks as if they have two apiece, and they are fairly widespread, from Ashreigney in the north to Paignton in the south and from Kelly in the west to Broadclyst in the east.   So visiting all of them does constitute a pilgrimage, and allowing for pub time, the most you can really expect to do in a day is half a dozen.  

Conversely, you can stop off at any you might happen to pass, and this is what I did at St Michael's, Ilsington, a minor diversion en route for the bluebells of Holwell Lawn.  

Ilsington is a lovely village on the edge of Dartmoor, but turning its gaze towards the smaller and less celebrated Haldon Moor.  It has a decent pub and the church, with its dark and mysterious interior and weathered churchyard, is typical of the area.   

Having found a suitable spot in which to deposit Dru's cards, I set about locating the three hares roof boss, remembering belatedly that the last time I'd undertaken this mission, I was younger and sharper-eyed and had four positively eagle-eyed offspring with me.  Alack, now I was reduced to squinting and craning and trying to recall whether this was one of the churches with the boss in the centre aisle or to the north or south? In the nave or the chancel?  Painted (and easy to spot) or merely carved?  

Ah, there they are!


Two days later I crossed several churches off my list in one go. First, Widecombe's St Pancras, which must have one of the best churchyards in the country (though I suspect the me in the parallel universe where I live on   

Dartmoor and enjoy wild literary success will end up mouldering with all those Harveys in Manaton).

The Widecombe hares are also favourites, partly because I love their naturalistic colouring, but mainly for being The First Hares Of My Childhood, when they were believed to be tinners' rabbits and their mystical significance had been mislaid.   

Also, it's next to one of three amazing Green Men. Look at this one!  He's just scored a penalty against Germany!

And in the porch, a couple of swallow nests.  

On to Tavistock, graced by the River Tavy in unwontedly sober mode.

The Church of St Eustachius - they made him up! - with its hugger-mugger graves ... 

... and the last remaining arch of the Abbey cloister in its grounds.

More baby bunnies than hares here, I think ... 

... but a fantastic monument to Judge John Glanville, who fell from his horse and broke his neck in 1600, and his wife, Alice.  

Next, St Andrew's in South Tawton, with its lovely Church House, and just opposite the Seven Stars pub too.  

More swallows in the porch and Dru's cards looking very much at home ... 

... presided over by possibly the best carved of all the hares, with their lovely fluted ears.  

Finally to Chagford, where I had a bit of a shock because the Church of St Michael the Archangel has been improved mightily since I last ventured inside in - ooh - probably 2005, because England were playing Australia in the Ashes in one of those nail-biting games that went right to the wire. 

A Church has to serve the needs of its community and be useful as well as beautiful, and that often this means making changes to the fabric of a building, but it has lost some of its darksome mystery.  

Plus, with the doors of the screen chained shut, presumably for reasons of security, I had to perform gymnastics to espy the hares.  (Did it in the end, though.)






So. Five down and a dozen to go, I'm going to enjoy the rest of my mission, whenever the next instalment falls. 

A Scramble Up Tavy Cleave

Just back from a swift visit to the biscuit tin by the sea with Son the Younger and the hound.  It rained a lot so we watched Sherlock on DVD.  And when it wasn't raining - which was yesterday - we headed up onto Dartmoor, to explore Tavy Cleave.

On paper, Tavy Cleave is a straightforward walk - you park a mile south of Lydford on the A386, enter the moor on a military road, pass Willsworthy firing ranges and follow Wheal Friendship Leat and then the River Tavy up through the Cleave to its confluence with the Rattle Brook.  Then you simply climb up the side of the cleave, turn left and saunter back along the top.

In reality, the terrain is challenging, especially beyond the headweir of the leat,
consisting mainly of boulders, holes between boulders and bog.  Then, once up high, there's oceans of choppy, tussocky moorland to cross.  The scenery is ample compensation, however, so I'll let the pictures do most of the talking.

On a long weekend when there were gratuitous displays of flags everywhere, it was a relief to see that the flagpoles on the firing range were empty - no live firing on a bank holiday, of course, but good to be absolutely sure.
 

After a run and a bit of ball chasing, Ted had to go back on the lead as we didn't want him to indulge in any sheep chasing.  He didn't seem to mind too much as he still got to splash in the leat and later on the River Tavy as it plunged through its gorge.

Dartmoor is pretty high and exposed, so the hawthorns are still in flower in June.
  

We had a bit of a rest at the leat headweir, to ready ourselves for what was to come - a clamber alongside the fast-flowing Tavy.  If Son the Younger was doubting the wisdom of accompanying me, he didn't let it show (much).  

Parts of the rest of the walk up through the cleave were easy-going - grassy shores and at one point smooth rock right next to the racing waters.  Other times we had to climb great banks of granite boulders, taking care not to trap our feet in any hidden gaps between them and risk breaking our ankles. 

In addition to hawthorn, the spring gorse was in brilliant bloom, as well as ubiquitous rowan trees, with the occasional fox glove adding a dash of magenta to the mix .

Soon Sharp Tor and Tavy Cleave Tors came into view.  

(So much for letting the photos do the talking; these piddly little pics give no real idea of the grandeur of the place. Maybe I'd better post a couple of bigger ones, looking downstream.)  

 

When we weren't bouldering, we were trying not to get stuck in areas of boggy ground - not always successfully.  I almost lost my walking shoe to one of them, but managed to extricate it still half on my foot.  Just as well, as we had now reached the confluence of the Tavy with the Rattle Brook (so named because of the considerable noise it makes), and it was time to climb up the side of the cleave to the slopes of Hare Tor above us.  

From higher up there was a lark's eye view of the meeting of the two streams - Rattlebrook on the left, Tavy on the right ... and of the surrounding moorland, alternately splashed with sunlight and cloud.

By now my ankles, knees and hips were beginning to feel the worse for wear, but the wild beauty of the place made every step worth it.

Our next stop was Ger Tor, from which there were more stunning views, much appreciated by Ted.   Look, no flag!  

We then had to pick our way across very tumpy grass, using sheep tracks where possible, to a boundary wall which led us back to the firing ranges.  The leat we'd followed on the way up the cleave shone silver in the fitful late afternoon sun.

Eventually we passed the firing ranges, every step now a battle with my complaining ankles and knees.  

It comes to something when you think you might not make it across the car park and into the pub (The Plume of Feathers in Princetown in this instance).  In the end I did, but with the sorry realisation that if I want to carry on challenging myself over Dartmoor, I need to shift the weight I've put on since I acquired a car and stopped walking everywhere.  Looks like Ted will get a lot more outings over the next few months ...