This was the first time I put a tent up in the middle of a bog, at night, in the snow. Conditions weren’t ideal but without the bitter wind it might have been almost comfortable.

 

I love Dartmoor for its sand-coloured plains, rocky tors and open ruggedness. Although you’re never more than a mile or so from some kind of settlement in Southern England, this place feels really wild – like you could be anywhere. As you enter the National Park there’s a stark, knife-edge contrast between the cultivated green fields of Devon behind you and the vast, untouched moors in front, and then you’re plunged into a bleak, beautiful expanse of wilderness.

 

The main roads through the middle can get busy, particularly during summer, but it’s easy to park in one of the many roadside spots and slip away into the moors. Most visitors don’t venture far from picnic spots, viewpoints and tors within bimbling distance of the car.

 

This time I arrived as the daylight was fading and parked in a Princetown residential road. Dartmoor has a climate of its own, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that it was snowing heavily despite being grey and muggy when I left Hampshire a couple of hours before. I set off NE towards the mast (a hugely useful landmark) which towers over the town, following a roughly pre-planned route.

 

The wind was bitter and the blizzard was relentless, but I was glad for it. Night navigation was much easier with the snow reflecting any kind of light; I could distinguish treelines, tors and hill brows, which I wouldn’t have been able to do without the white-black contrast. A couple of hours into tramping through mean, rocky, slippery terrain, I found myself on track but in a nasty patch of boggy, wet, undulating ground. The snow wasn’t so helpful here, as it hid what was under my feet rather than illuminating it. I found a semi-flat bit of ground that was slightly sheltered by a low grassy mound; although keen to press on, I conceded that I’d rather camp in a dry-ish spot, so settled down onto my cheap Quechua sleeping mat after a bitter fight with the wind, snow and my cheap Eurohike tent.

 

Top tip: if you’ll be sleeping on snow, spend more than £4.99 on a mat. I should have learnt that in Scotland last year, but investing in a self-inflating mat is still on my to-do list. Fully clothed and curled into two cheap sleeping bags (spot the pattern?) I was still cold, but I survived.

 

Top tip #2: if you think you might be getting a blister, no matter how cold you are, right now is the time to sort it out. This was me half an hour after fight no.2 with cheap Eurohike tent (the weather didn’t ease overnight, by the way). Fortunately Great Mis Tor offered some shelter as I reluctantly stopped to shove a blister plaster on each heel, and I didn’t have any further issues despite wearing my shiny new Salomon Quest 2 4Ds for the first time.

 

It took a while to warm up, but once I did I could finally appreciate Dartmoor in all its rugged glory. After stumbling happily down a windswept slope, I realised that I couldn’t follow my route as a “stream” was less crossable than I anticipated, probably due to a combination of heavy snow and poor planning. I didn’t fancy a) getting myself and my 70l backpack wet, or b) drowning, so I followed it upstream hoping to find a place to cross. I was unsuccessful, so re-routed and ended up slogging through the most awkward, humpy, dippy, tufty, boggy ground I’ve ever walked across. This went on for a while, and despite it being a Saturday in the middle of the Easter Holidays, I didn’t see a soul.

 

After another uncrossable river, a few sketchy traverses across rock edges perilously close to said river and a glute-achingly steep, rough valley climb, I found myself at Lydford Tor and in the MOD danger area (having checked firing times beforehand – please do this). With the original route out the window and the smell of mum’s promised roast lamb filling my head, I adjusted my course  to arc back towards Princetown, using the map as a rough guide and aiming vaguely for the big mast. The weather had finally relented and the hike back was pleasant but uneventful; the landscape opened up and I could see the Beardown Tors, dark woods towards Two Bridges and the ominous granite walls of Dartmoor Prison.

 

I made it back to the car unscathed and, true to form, went straight to the pub (I should probably sort out my spending priorities). I recommend the Plume of Feathers in Princetown – it’s welcoming, cosy and does great steak pie. Fed, thawed and thirst for adventure temporarily quenched, I trundled back to Hampshire just in time for Sunday roast lamb.