Cider, Pigs, Two Interesting Gates and A Dead Squirrel (Not Necessarily In That Order)

When Alice Oswald said during a recent reading in Bristol that her favourite spot on Dartmoor was Chalk Ford, my heart sank a bit.  Lovely it certainly is, but getting there involves a hefty climb one way or another, and the instant she said it, I knew that the Northerner, being an ardent admirer of Alice Oswald's poetry and a rookie Dartmoor devotee, would want to go there.  And so it proved.  So first we had to fortify ourselves in the Tradesmans Arms at Scorriton, where they sell a damn fine pint of cider. It's the deep rosy red colour of Thatcher's Cheddar Valley but it's proper dry scrumpy, tastes of cheese and is called Thompstone's. 

I've walked a lot around Chalk Ford, but managed to find a route up to the moor that was new to me, from Combe to Lud Gate - a nice sunken holloway, or green lane as they are usually called in Devon.  The idyll included a dead squirrel, however.  

It would have been lovely to walk out on the moor - my original plan was to explore Huntingdon Warren, coming back via Pupers Hill - but the clouds were mist, so we decided to stick close to the edges of the moor.  

The conditions made for beautifully moody photos, however. 

Just before Lud's Gate we encountered this very pleasing fence made of old wheels, at a place called Strole.  

And here is Lud's Gate itself.  

After all that climbing, the views from the moor were even more spectacular.  

The hill shining all goldy in a patch of sun was just where we'd been (with the sheep).  

The clouds were closing in so we pressed on downhill to Chalk Ford, ignoring some rather evil-looking cows that were intent on following us. 

Lovely Chalk Ford, where the little River Mardle leaves the moor

Oak tree at Chalk Ford ... 

... with epiphytic polypold ferns like little green flags

Then we merely had to return to Scorriton via the bridleway - a pleasant enough wander downhill though it's attrition when you're coming in the opposite direction.  

Today we encountered a deer and ... 

... a pigling on the loose ... 

... who clearly couldn't find his way home.  I tried to drive it into its field but it wasn't having it and Ted, who was outraged by all the grunting, started to get rather protective from other side of the gate on the path, so in the end I left it where it was. 

Coming back into Scorriton 

The pub in Scorriton was closed when we got back, as was the Church House Inn in Holne. We did get to see another splendid makeshift gate, however, this one made out of horseshoes.  

Then home to the biscuit tin by the sea with its bottle of Tequila in the fridge ... 

 

Black Tor and the Upper Meavy Valley

You can't see it clearly, but this foal is in the process of losing his baby fluff and very fetching he looks too.  



Also, in the distance to the far left is the 13th century Church of St Michael de Rupe atop Brent Tor. And not so far away, Great Staple and Middle Staple Tors and Kings Tor.

Rather clearer is Black Tor, the starting point of our second walk. (This is the Black Tor in the south-west of the moor, not Black Tor in the north near High Willhays, nor Black Tor in the south-east near the Avon Dam reservoir.)  

Here's a closer look at that interesting outcrop with its a logan stone, which, until recently, rocked.  

Also, a view of Sheeps Tor, Leather Tor and Sharpitor above Burrator Reservoir (as opposed to Sharpitor near Lustleigh. And the Sharp Tors at Dartmeet, in the Erme Valley, near Lydford and above the Teign Gorge respectively). 

There is only one North Hessary Tor and here it is, distinguished by its FM radio and television transmitter.  

Our route was taking us down into the valley, where we crossed the Meavy at the Black Tor ford.  

On the opposite bank, a pair of stone rows converge on a couple of cairns on the slopes of Hart Tor, our next destination.  

(That's Hart Tor, not the Hartor Tors, Hartland Tor or Heltor Rock ... )

As is customary, I am lagging some way behind Son the Younger and Ted, who can be made out on top of Hart Tor ... 

... which, when I get there, offers a lovely view of South Hessary Tor, which doesn't have an FM radio and television transmitter. 

 We then negotiated tin workings to reach and follow the Hart Tor Brook as it tumbled most picturesquely on its way to meet the River Meavy.  Our starting point, Black Tor, is prominent on the horizon.  

Look, so beautiful! ... 

... and yes, as usual, lots of death too.  

Downstream the water gets all complicated.  Here the Meavy subsumes Hart Tor brook, and flows off to be gobbled up in turn by Burrator Reservoir.  

Meanwhile, part of the Meavy is diverted into the Devonport Leat which is itself rattling down Raddick Hill, to be carried over the Meavy/Hart Tor Brook by aqueduct.  

Ted just wants an illicit dip in the leat. 

In my novel, Dart, the hero, Tobias, finds himself at a loss in this landscape:  

He heaved himself onto Oke and the two horses picked a path down the clitter-strewn hillside and over the river. He was in unknown territory now – a stranger 

in a strange place. He looked about him for a sign that might point him on his way, but the hills turned their backs in a huddle and the tors supporting the sky were grimly indifferent. 




Not us, however: we had to climb back up to Black Tor ...... and home. 

Walking the Anorak Way

Son the Younger and Ted - there they are, in the biscuit tin by the sea - needed exercise, so we decided to do two short walks on Dartmoor instead of one long one. 

Our first walk started at Hexworthy, just around the hairpin bend from the Forest Inn pub.  









Embarrassingly, given that I set my novel, Dart, in this very village during mediaeval times, I initially set off in completely the wrong direction. My excuse is that the walking book was extremely vague about the starting point of our two mile foray. We were soon en route proper, though, heading towards Swincombe with views over the valley to Bellever Tor and Laughter Tor.

 Before long we encountered the ruins of Dolly's Cot.  The uprights you can see are the jambs of the fireplace, where we sat and shared a couple of sandwiches. 

The details of Dolly Trebble's life are contradictory.  

She lived here with her husband, William - or maybe Tom - who might/might not have been a local miner.   (The story is further complicated by the existence of another Dolly's Cot on the East Dart at Brimpts.)  



Anyhow, the tale has it that the beautiful Dolly attracted the attention of the Prince Regent, and her husband moved her to this remote spot 'to protect her'.  The fact that 'Prinny' never visited Dartmoor has led some to believe that it was Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, who built Princetown and the prison, who was in pursuit of lovely Dolly.  Or maybe poor Dolly was just married to a jealous and possessive man.  We just don't know. 

And look, here's the bridge we walked across only the other day, while on our trek around Foxtor Mires, with the ruins of Swincombe Farm on the opposite bank - which, funnily enough, passed into Tyrwhitt's ownership and became part of his Tor Royal estate. 

So maybe Dolly's Cot wasn't such a great hiding place after all.  

Having reached the bridge, we wandered back along the River Swincombe in the direction of Hexworthy.  This area is called Gobbett Plain and is the site of a former 19th century tin mining operation, with an abundance of ruined buildings, abandoned and dried out leats, etc.  Note the amber water  - a common sight on Dartmoor dye to the abundance of peat which stains the streams and rivers the colour of black tea.  

Poor Ted had to stay firmly on the lead on account of the Dartmoor ponies, belted Galloway cattle and sheep that roam this part of the moor. 

The last stretch took us up the hill back to our car, with more splendid views of Bellever Tor and Laughter Tor. 








A little walk, perhaps, but one which, on my OS map on which I mark all my Dartmoor jaunts, joins a huge swathe of felt-penned territory on the west with that on the east, from Ringmoor Down, near Burrator Reservoir, arcing up and over to Merrivale, and on up to the Beehive Hut on the East Dart, then over to Ponsworthy and Holne Bridge, and down to Ryder's Hill and Buckfastleigh.  Which makes me a very happy anorak indeed.  

Beyond The Pale

Past the crowds of holiday makers the colour of coconut ice, the hot dog stands and the sugary stink of doughnuts, the go-karts and crazy golf, the amusements and the pub called the Sunburnt Arms ... 

... there's Dawlish Warren.  It is beautiful and today Ted and I almost had it to ourselves. 

The sea is not just photogenic ... 

... it's a fine artist in its own right.

Occasionally I long for a holiday somewhere far flung and exotic ... 

... but not on days like these.