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. 

The Scenic Route

On the half mile walk from the cottage to the Ness car park to fetch the car, I decided that it probably wasn't going to be a sitting-on-the-front sort of day.

Mid morning, it started to rain. 'Wanna go-a House a-Marbles,' my father announced. 

First, though, lunch in the lovely cafe at the Devon Guild of Craftsmen, also in Bovey Tracey ...

... and a chance encounter in the car park with my friend and fellow poet, Dominic Weston - he of the Shepton Mallet Snowdrop Festival. I had to take a photo to make sure I hadn't dreamt it. 

To be honest, House of Marbles isn't a dream destination for me - in fact, it's right up there with Yelverton's Paperweight Museum and the Lawnmower Museum at Trerice as places to avoid.

Though they did have some interesting stuff. 

We decided to take the scenic route back to the cottage. This is Haytor Rocks ... 

... Saddle Tor ... 

... Horridge Common ... 

... Bell Tor, Chinkwell Tor and Honeybag Tor ... 

... Easdon Tor, Hound Tor, Hayne Down and Grea Tor ... 

... and Top Tor. 

Oh well, at least I know the moor's still there ...

... and the proceedings did tire my charges out. 

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.