In the dark, wet, late December days just before the Alpha lock down, we managed to escape to a isolated 17th century barn near Manaton, in the heart of Dartmoor. We nearly didn’t arrive. Taking a wrong turn on the sat nav at night in a yellow warning rainstorm sparked a real adventure. Careering down tiny, single lanes, which had turned into cascading streams, trying to not skid into the eight-foot hedges and praying that no cars would come the other way. The water hit the windscreen in such buckets that the wipers gave no rest bite. We resorted to driving as much by the map as the road, calling out turns rally style (quarter turn left in 200 m….). Without a doubt the most treacherous driving I have ever encountered in the UK. We were very relieved to arrive and the wrong side of frazzled.
We spent the next four days in isolated bliss. We trekked
for hours, over tors, across moors and down through pockets of ancient oak
rainforest. The place had a real mythical touch to it in the mists of winter.
We would arrive home just before dark, knackered and soaked, but happy, having
barely seen another soul all day. We had brought enough food in the boot to
last our stay, so spent the evening fuelling up, playing board games and decompressing.
First up was a trek straight out our door. One turn and we
were on to a high banked farm track, leading us gently to the foot of Bowerman’s
Nose, via irregular shaped fields and the odd cow. The lower slopes were
covered in a moss strewn wood, the trees seeming shrunk by their epiphyte burden.
We emerged onto more open hillside and trekked upwards, slipping on the sand
and stone. It felt so good, to be away from home. Hitting the peak, the wind
was up and up, momentarily washing away some of the troubles of the past
months. It was the type of wind that pins your hair back and flaps against the
cheeks. Standing was a struggle, especially for the small ones. Leaning far
forward into the gusts and grasping the kids’ hands, we drove forward and found
shelter behind the giant bounders, peering out now and then to take sight of
the vast expanse of bleak moors to the West.
Of the several peaks we visited, my favourite was Hound Tor.
It was both the far point and highlight of a wonderful 15 km circular trek from
our barn. The trek up through the sodden moor was relieved by sunshine at the summit,
a brief god send in the dark months. Complete with spectacular views over the shifting
land and adorned by huge hunks of granite that the kids could clamber over, the
peak proved a perfect place for a well-earned lunch (which we took sheltered
under the rocks). Coming back down the other side, but still high on the hill,
we fell upon the remains of an abandoned medieval village. As the kids crawled all
over the abandoned stone walls, I felt a sharp eeriness to the place. Lonely, wind
swept and long forgotten. A strange place to visit in such strange times.
The peaks were balanced out by walks along the farmed valley
floors, rivers and ravines. Eastern Dartmoor is such a wonderful patchwork of
contrast. Nothing was though quite like our trek along and above the river
Bovey. Running through old woodland and steep ravine. Without knowing it at the
time, we had stumbled upon one of the rare remaining patches of British
Atlantic rainforest. Oak, damp, and overarching branches covered in dripping
moss, lichen and fern. A place to inspire fantasy. I am not religious, or even
spiritual, but this placed stirred something inside. Leaping from boulder to
giant boulder to cross this forest river still stays with me as a photo-crisp
memory of time.
In short, Dartmoor was wonderful. In the depths of winter,
it had cleansed our covid weary minds.
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