August Ban Collie Day at Wistman's Wood and Cox Tor

Cwtch doesn't care for Ban Collie Days; in fact, she gets quite peevish when they roll around. As for their homonyn, Bank Holiday Days, I'm not mad keen on them either, on account of the crowds and traffic jams, but Dartmoor is the place to go if you want to get away from it all, so we did.

And as we hadn't been there for some years, and it's an easy walk on a hot day, we settled on a wander up to Wistmans Wood. 

Coming into view

Following the unpleasant incident with cow shit on the Gwent Levels the other day - and in view of the fact there were sheep in the vicinity - Cwtch stayed on the lead, but it didn't seem to prevent her from enjoying her surroundings.  

As we advanced up the valley, I watched a raven doing circuit-and-bumps along the Beardown Tors, but apart from its occasional shouts, it was quiet, the West Dart being too low to make any noise as it limped down over the boulders. 

Crow Tor - one of my favourites - was visible on the horizon, but we weren't walking that far today. 

Notices request that you walk around rather than through Wistman's Wood, so as to avoid damaging the fragile habitat - and the adders that live there. (OK, I added that second bit, though actually, when I did bump into a live adder, a long time ago now on Meldon Hill, it was fascinating rather than terrifying.) (Though I wouldn't want Cwtch anywhere near one.) (Despite having an adder pack.)

In respect of this, we perched just inside the edge of the wood, and looked up and all around at the amazing lichens and mosses that hang like washing from a line, while a robin kept a beady eye on us to make sure we didn't trespass any further. 

After a while we exited the wood and headed a little further up the valley. This is the view looking back down, with Wistman's Wood on the right and the West Dart hidden in the valley. 

gorse and ling

Then we popped back into the shade for a bit.

As we'd got up quite early to reach Dartmoor at a sensible hour, it was now time to head back to the Dartmoor Inn at Merrivale for a light lunch. On the way a large Southern Hawker, which must have been at least three inches long, gave me a good looking-over, before flying off just as I was about to take a photo.

Beardown Plantation and the West Dart

After a little refreshment we headed for Cox Tor, which we last visited nearly two years ago, just after the death of our old collie, Ted.

Looking back towards Tavistock

Roos Tor

Cox Tor

Looking towards Plymouth Sound and the River Tamar

I've started thinking of this as Grief Tor, and it does feel like attrition to climb it, though the views are comforting. And having seen collie angels last time we were here, it felt right to be accompanied this time by our own beguiling little Cwtch ...

... and a passing foal that stopped for a cuddle (much to the dog's chagrin). 

Stand-off!

To Wistman's Wood, Crow Tor and Devil's Tor

I've finally got around to transferring the photos of my Whitsun walk up the West Dart valley from my phone to my laptop.  This is one of my favourite spots in the world, so it must have been excitement that made me omit to check that my memory card was in my camera.

One of the things that makes Wistman's Wood so very special is that like the bumble bee, it is one of Nature's impossibilities.  At about 1,300 feet above sea level, it is simply too high for penunculate oaks to grow there.  So although you're sure you see it,  it doesn't really exist.

Amongst the stunted oaks clambering and crawling from moss-wrapped boulders are hollies, rowans and willows, all festooned in mosses and lichens, some of which are extremely rare.  And there are snakes.  Lots and lots of snakes.  

As befits a place that doesn't exist, plenty of legends nest in its branches.  In particular, Wistman's Wood ('wisht' being local for wierd or uncanny) is the lair of Old Dewer and his hounds, known elsewhere as the Wild Hunt.  You would be ill-advised to walk here at night.  

Luckily for us, the weather was fine, unlike a previous occasion when I walked this valley and was overtaken by the sort of mist for which Dartmoor is notorious.  But that's another story. 

There's a mischievous joy in showing a newbie favourite haunts knowing that with every step Dartmoor is extending its claws and hooking them in.  That said, Ted and I like to break new ground too, so instead of fording the West Dart at the weir and following the Devonport Leat back down to Two Bridges, we crossed it beneath  Crow Tor (which actually resembles a roosting chicken) and headed on up the valley.  

To ring the changes, here's a wintry lino print of Crow Tor by one of my favourite print makers, Arthur Homeshaw, a Bristolian who lived and worked for many years in Devon and oh if I had the money, I would collect the living daylights out of him.

Whatever the weather, you have to treat Dartmoor with respect.  It's an unremitting landscape ... 

... so it's vital, even in fine weather, to take a compass and map with you.  

From Crow Tor we continued north to Rough Tor where we paused for refreshments and a chat with a fellow walker who was making his way east to the ruins of Brown's House. 

We, on the other hand, were  headed west - over extremely tussocky terrain - for the unprepossessing Devil's Tor, on top of which perched a handsome raven, apparently oblivious to any symbolism we might have attributed to him.  He hung about for quite some time, floating overhead and cronking amiably. 

Close to Devil's Tor was our ultimate destination, Beardown Man, which looks out over the Cowsic valley.  Erected over 4000 years ago, it's the highest and almost-but-not-quite tallest standing stone on the moor.   ('Man' is related to the Celtic word 'maen' meaning stone, but the fact that there's a standing stone called Three Boys on Shovel Down makes me more inclined to think of them as a family.)

Here's an idea of how tall it is, and you can bet there'll be another six feet or so of stone beneath the moor.  

From Beardown Man, we made our way towards Beardown Tors which give the impression of being castellated and are very pleasing to behold. 

Past Beardown Tors there was a view looking back across Devonport Leat and the West Dart to Wistman's Wood.     

Then it was back to the car via the leat as it slid mysteriously, almost mechanically, through the dark conifers of Beardown Plantation.  Ah, wild and lovely Dartmoor, I'll be back soon. 

Testing Times on Dratmore

It was clear from the fast-flowing, peat-stained waters barging under Harford Bridge that the River Erme was running very high, and this was bad because Ted and I would have to ford it several miles upstream.  But faint heart never got wet feet, so we continued on our way, up onto the moor via the gate at Hall Plantation.

Our first stop was the Tristis Rock.  I've long wondered why it's called that, wondering if the name has its etymology in the Latin tristis, which means 'sad' or 'foul-smelling' - like, say, star-crossed lovers met there and fell into a bog - or if it's connected to a person, for example, a garlic sausage-gobbling Norman invader who seized the land, simultaneously spilling his Listerine.  Whatever, I haven't turned up a story yet.

Normally the first thing I do when I get to a tor is climb it, but Tristis looked like quite a challenge with one very dodgy looking foothold in particular so I gave it a miss, deciding that if I did fall and sprain my sprained ankle, it would be quite tristis for me out there on my own, Ted's Lassie skills leaving rather a lot to be desired.  There were great views from the base of the rocks, anyhow, up the Erme valley to Sharp Tor.

The main reason why I wanted to do this walk was to get a closer look at one of three extreme oaklands on the moor.  Like bumble bees, which, the laws of physics assure us, cannot fly, Piles Copse, Black-a-Tor Copse and Wistmans Wood do not exist because oak trees cannot grow at such a high altitude and in such exposed conditions.  Except that they do.  And there, up ahead on the right hand bank of the Erme, was Piles Copse, the only one of the three I had yet to visit.

First though, the locating of a rather whimsical path through boggy scrub, through a gap in a wall and another gate, followed by a slantwise trek up hill before joining a good track leading up the valley from the Water Treatment Works through a well preserved bronze age settlement containing hut circles in an enclosure.

When walking through such sites, I always wonder about the people who were born, worked and died here so long ago, what their lives were like, what hopes and dreams they had.

The path headed on up the valley alongside the copse. It was easy walking, albeit pretty wet in places.  

There were lots of sheep and ponies about, so Ted went back on the lead.

We were now opposite the copse.  A handful of oaks and one or two rowans had even seeded themselves on our side of the river, which, incidentally, was still looking pretty fierce.  I wondered about the crossing.  I somehow doubted we would get over but kept on going, not least because the walking instructions said to turn right at the lone hawthorn and make one's way down to the bank, which pleased my inner Blytonesque adventurer no end.
  

And there it was, the lone hawthorn, its berries reddening ...

... and there the river was, nigh on impassable.


  At this point I had three options.  1. Risk it.  2. Carry on upstream for another two and a half miles where there was a second crossing point.  3. Admit defeat.

Number 1 option was a non starter.  Dartmoor rivers are notorious for sweeping people away and not just in folk tales, either.  I couldn't risk Ted's safety, nor mine for that matter. 

Number 2 option also lacked appeal.  It was already mid afternoon and the weather was closing in.  What's more, there was no guarantee the ford upstream would be any less dangerous and I risked adding an extra five miles to my journey and still having to resort the dreaded option 3 ...
  
Every particle of my body hates, loathes and detests turning around and retracing my steps, and it never gets any more palatable.  But Dartmoor is my teacher and its lessons are always challenging, this one just more so.
  
It's never as easy finding the path on the way back.  And I'd forgotten how bloody boggy the Erme valley is, I'm sure it's wetter than all the others.   Ted seemed quite happy, though.  And before I'd got back to the car, I was already working out a different route for next time.