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.

Great Mis Tor and Mystery at Merrivale

It was hot.  Too hot.  So armed with my brand new waterproof walking shoes - no, that's not right ... shod in my shoes, I drove up to Four Winds on Dartmoor with Son the Younger and Ted.  

I've long wanted to climb Great Mis Tor, having travelled past and photographed and written about it for years, and the added draw up a Tor named after the cloud that so often shrouds it would be a breeze to take edge off the muggy heat.  Four Winds ... Great Mists ... obvious, innit.


So we climbed it - and there was not a breath of wind.  If the flag had been flying, it would have clung limply to the flagpole.  (Although it was good that it wasn't, this being the edge of the Merrivale Range Danger Area.)

We mopped the sweat from our brows and surveyed the rock formations. Sometimes it's hard to remember that this isn't a massive art installation or grandiose folly, but the work of fire and molten rock hundreds of millions of years ago, with subsequent weathering by the always  - or almost always - present winds.  

Looking out over the Walkham Valley to White Tor.

In the distance and on the opposite side of the River Walkham we could see Great Staple Tor and Roos Tor, two of the highlights on our route.  To get to them we would have to descend to the bottom of the valley and find somewhere to cross - not an easy feat considering how wet this summer has been.  

It was tiring scrambling over boulders and squelching along boggy stretches of bank, and I soon discovered that my brand new waterproof walking shoes weren't waterproof at all, grr.  Ted was in his element, however, even though he had to stay on his lead as there were so many sheep about.  

Eventually we found a crossing point although half way over I had to throw the map, book and camera over onto the opposite bank so that I could balance properly.  But a Dartmoor walk isn't a Dartmoor walk unless you spend at least some of the time teetering on top of a sharp-edged boulder in the middle of a fast-flowing stream of peat-stained water.

What I was looking forward to as a breezy saunter along the ridge to Roos Tor turned out to be more of a tortuous hobble over bog and choppy grass, with sweat stinging my eyes.  It was good to come across the neolithic Langstone Moor Stone Circle and rest for a while.  Not that there is much of it left intact, US servicemen having used the stones for target practice during World War II.  Oh well, I suppose it makes a change from Victorian farmers pinching them for gateposts.

Meanwhile, the views - sunsplash and shadow - were just majestic.   On the slopes of Great Mis Tor, there was a shadow shaped like a cow.

My favourite sort of days on Dartmoor are ones where there is an interplay of shadow and cloud.  Yesterday was perfect - apart from the humidity.  This the view from Roos Tor ... 

... and this from the giant doorjambs of Great Staple Tor.

Often in walking books, pictures of the author's dog feature and if it's a border collie, it will almost always be posing on a picturesque bit of rock.  They have such a sense of occasion and Ted is no exception.   

In fact, he can't stop grinning for the camera.  

Between Great and Middle Staple Tors, there was a herd of wild ponies, with which Ted coped very well.  

The prospect of refreshment in the Dartmoor Inn put a spring in our step as we descended from Middle Staple Tor to Merrivale Quarry, which was the last Dartmoor quarry to close in 1997.  Like all the other disused quarried on the moor, the workings are now flooded.

It was a relief to dive into a pint of cider and a bowl of ice cream on a pub bench bearing the imprint of generations of quarrymen's bottoms.  Would have stayed there in the cool of the bar a lot longer, but there was still a mile to walk back to the car.  

Although we were knackered, we opted to detour through the complex of stone rows, circles, cairns, cists and standing stones.  This area is also called the Plague Market, because it's where moorfolk and townfolk would swap goods and money in times of plague.  

Looking back towards Middle Staple Tor, Great Staple Tor and Roos Tor.

Son the Younger and Ted trying to see if there are any bodies remaining in this cist.  

One last look back at the stone rows.  I'm not one for orbs and all, but given the lack of dust in the air, I am left wondering what this strange misty sphere is nestling in the top of one stone ...