Tag: devon

Dartmoor, October ’19

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We left for Devon on Friday evening, undeterred by the miserable forecast and keen to escape the week. After a drink in the Ring O’Bells at Chagford and a sketchy drive along some flooded back roads (sketchy because of the flooding, not the drink), we spent the night in an empty roadside car park on the moors near the Warren House Inn. The wind howled outside and sideways-rain thrashed relentlessly at the windows, making the van extra cosy and the thought of a Saturday hike extra unappealing.

Fortunately the 9am England vs New Zealand World Cup semi-final provided a watertight excuse to chill out in the van. That morning I discovered the best way to watch rugby: tucked in bed, coffee in hand, storm raging outside, on a phone held by two karabiners onto a bungee cord strung across the ceiling of the van. For those 80 minutes the world was perfect, and England’s 19-7 victory topped it off with icing and a cherry.

Reluctant to waste the day, we drove across the bleak, blustery moor. I’d hoped to wander over the old clapper bridge at Postbridge but it was flooded, so we went on to Princetown and went round Dartmoor Prison museum. The prison itself is a foreboding, horror film-esque building, but that morning it was swallowed and obscured by oppressive, thick grey fog. The museum was really interesting; highlights included escape stories, improvised weapons, cleverly concealed contraband and all sorts of prison-made matchstick models.

The weather was still grim so we wandered round the National Park visitor centre, turned down a (strangely?) friendly shopkeeper’s invite to a Halloween party, found a good overnight spot in Princetown, chilled out in the van for a while, planned Sunday’s hike and spent the evening eating and drinking in the cosy Plume of Feathers pub. I assume we had a good time as I don’t remember returning to the van.

We were up quite early on Sunday morning, thanks in part to the clocks going back. We watched South Africa beat Wales during breakfast at the Fox Tor café, a buzzing little outdoorsey hostel/café in Princetown, and plodded (mild hangovers prevented exuberant movement) out onto the moors to make the most of the dry weather.

I’d plotted a rough route by circling tors on the map and joining them up. We walked past the towering Princetown TV mast along a long stretch of bridleway, then scrambled down a rocky edge into disused Foggintor quarry. This is a big granite playground containing a lake, lots of bouldering/climbing/scrambling/camping potential and a few sheep bones. After messing around like children we carried on to King’s Tor as the crow flies, which involved scrambling down a huge pile of boulders and wading through knee-high tufts of boggy grass.

It was pleasantly dry at the top of the hill and we scrambled over the tor, admiring the view. Rugged moorland surrounded us on three sides, punctuated by granite tors which towered like huge stacks of elephant poo, and in front rolling countryside marked the edge of the National Park. We climbed down and carried on, following a curved track once used by quarry carts round to Ingra Tor. After a bit more scrambling we bore east and headed uphill past a group of hardy-looking Dartmoor ponies towards the scree-sided Sharpitor, but it was a little out the way and looked pretty similar to the other elephant poos so we turned left at the B3212 and headed back towards Princetown.

This section took us parallel to a slab-lined stream which we’ve decided to revisit in summer – it’s practically wasted as a water supply as it’d make a perfect lazy river. We walked along this low-lying bit of moor, past dark fir forest, reddish ferns and scrubby bushes, found a tucked-away spot by a waterfall for next time’s pre-lazy river camping, and climbed the gradual slope up to Hart Tor. Here the surrounding moorland is covered by rippling golden grass which touches the horizon on three sides, broken only by the blue haze silhouette of Sharpitor and Tryfan-shaped Leather Tor to the southwest. View admired and Hart Tor being our last circle on the map, we descended across the wild, yellowey moor and followed the road back into Princetown.

So far I’ve failed to mention my idiocy the previous afternoon, perhaps in the hope that anyone reading has got bored by now. I had been enjoying van’n’chill so much that time spent listening to music with the ignition on had flown by and drained the battery. We realised this on Saturday but prioritised the pub (which I do not regret), so we were left with the job of organising a jump start post-hike. I was devastated to find out that a) we couldn’t jump the main battery with the leisure one, and b) my breakdown cover doesn’t cover campervans, but found an alternative service (Kev from Plymouth) which arrived quickly and sorted the problem.*

And so we left Dartmoor, half ashamed, half amused, fully satisfied with a lovely weekend (despite the weather) and fully disappointed that it was over.

*NB – I’ve since written to the insurance provider and received a full refund plus the cost of Kev’s callout, so you can sleep tonight knowing that justice was served.

Dartmoor, March ’18

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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.