August 19, 1992: Holne to Widecombe-in-the-Moor

It was once again rather grey and overcast when we got up on the morning of August 19, a Wednesday. The evening weather reports had again warned of rain, but there did not seem to be any moisture threatening at this moment and, after making some coffee in our room, when went down to breakfast in good spirits. I had the full breakfast on this occasion, but more often than not I just had scrambled eggs on toast on this trip. I am not a great breakfast eater under any circumstances and the sausage and bacon inevitably on offer are often so salty that they add unnecessarily to my thirst.

We ate at 8:30, which was the opening hour of the little post office and store behind the hotel. While our bill was being prepared we made a visit to this establishment, passing a little Cairn Terrier who was sitting on top of a wall, surveying all the passersby. We bought some juice cartons, some apples and candy bars, and Gavan also bought some postcards and stamps – although the latter necessitated the opening of the post office window for the first time this morning. I bought some cards showing scenes we had yet to visit.

Back at the hotel I used my Visa card to pay our bill and at 9:20, as I was careful to record on my underground ticket, we began our departure from Holne. We had only an eight-mile day and therefore we could have dawdled, but we had decided to press ahead at our normal pace of thirty minutes to the mile in order to reach Widecombe in time for lunch. This would have been a nice rest day but, unfortunately, we were not in need of a rest. I would have liked a much longer second day, but there is no accommodation hereabouts, other than Widecombe, between Holne and Chagford, some 21 miles distant. I had even spoken to the proprietor of the Warren House Inn, at the fourteen-mile mark, but he offered no accommodation at all. Gavan was, of course, delighted with the idea of reaching Widecombe while the pubs were still open.

We had one last block to climb in order to reach not only the top of Holne but a watershed, for a stile soon invited us into a series of fields leading down to the River Dart. The views, in spite of the gray skies, were excellent, and the deep-forested valley of the river was most inviting. We were careful to make sure we were using all the right fences and stiles to reach Cleave Wood – but the waymarking seemed quite adequate at this stage.

We approached the banks of the river near a wonderful horseshoe shaped pool in the swift moving waters. I was trying to take photos but I often failed to find enough light. We made our way northwards in good spirits on a level path, with not another soul about. As we approached New Bridge, however, activity started to pick up. We could see campsites and a car park and a good deal of traffic over the bridge itself. We paused as we crossed this span, taking pictures while the traffic forced us onto some little v-shaped parapets (the bridge had its origins in the 15th century). Of course there was room for only one vehicle at a time and during our tenure on the bridge we were passed by a large red bus driven by a black man.

Our guidebook gave us instructions to leave the bridge by the left, once we had achieved the west bank, and to drop beneath the bridge to pursue a path on this side as we continued north. After half a mile we gradually left the riverside and climbed up to a road at Newbridge Hill. The Two Moors Way forsakes the traffic, however, to cross an open hillside beneath Leigh Tor. Gavan did a good job of finding a path in the bracken as we climbed quite steeply upwards, aiming for a spot to the left of the rocky outcrop above us. We were certainly out of breath by the time we had fought our way to the top – where I found Gavan sprawled face downward on a grassy plateau, having a catatonic rest. I, too, sat down, for a little while.

Then we continued in a westerly direction, following a fence without any further elevation rise for the moment, crossing the aforementioned road, and then following a path, a dirt road, and a grassy ride up the flanks of Aish Tor. Gavan was a bit perturbed at having to do so much uphill this early in the day, but the elevation rises, which he could anticipate from the yellow-covered OS map of Dartmoor, never proved to be too onerous.

We had now joined Dr. Blackall’s Drive, a 19th Century carriageway that wound among the tors high above the Dart Valley, now on our left. This was another magical section, with purple heather and spiny yellow gorse in the foreground and distant views of the green hills and their craggy tops all about. The walking was delightful and, in retrospect, it was probably a mistake to have blunted our concentration by spending quite so much time on this stretch discussing the affairs of the English Department of the American School in London.

Gavan and I had an argument about Mel Tor. I told him it was straight ahead of us and he argued that it was on the opposite side of the valley. By the time we passed near its summit, a few minutes later, he owed me a beer. A number of people were about as we approached the top of the moorland at a famous viewpoint, Bel Tor Corner. Here we passed through a parking lot and crossed the B3357, having risen to the 350 meter mark, a climb of 750 feet since leaving the banks of the river.

The way forward was across the open moor of Sherberton Common, with excellent views to the north and a hint of brightness in the skies. There were a number of tracks about and Gavan and I had a bit of a quarrel when we reached Primm Cottage. I remembered that we were not to be tempted to make a descent here and that we were to ignore an inviting path in order to continue at the same level to another road junction. There was even a little traffic island here, with two farm lads laboring to get a tractor going. Then we made a steep descent down to Ponsworthy, an attractive village with some thatched roofs and flowers growing everywhere.

Here, after fording a stream that flows over the tarmac of the village road, we found a woodland path that paralleled the West Webburn River, not as mighty as the Dart and certainly much higher, by some 500 feet, than our Newbridge crossing. Some of the field paths we now used were rather mucky. In the mile it took us to get from Ponsworthy to the Mill House at Jordan the sun had again disappeared but it was rather warm and humid among the trees and I paused, after we reached the road at Jordan, to take off my dark blue UCLA sweatshirt – which I tied to the back of my pack. There were some kids playing here on tricycles and they gazed at us as though we were creatures from outer space.

Next came a steep climb past the junction to Bellever and up the hill to Dockwell Farm. We were on a narrow paved lane that continued to rise to another great crossing at the top of the moor – in open country again. Just at this point the Two Moors Way heads off in a northerly direction on the grassy ridge top, but those heading for Widecombe-in-the-Moor have to stick to the road, following the precedent of lonely delivery vans as they inched up to the summit crest and dropped abruptly down the opposite side. There were wonderful views of Widecombe’s valley and we could soon see the tall spire of the town church and the crag-top hillsides that sheltered Widecombe on the east.

The descent was very steep and more than once we speculated on the energy that would be needed to get us back up to the tops on the next morning. The cover of trees soon made it rather dark but just a few meters after meeting the Widecombe road, where we turned north, we actually passed Rutherford House, our b&b for the night. The proprietors had sent a postcard that not only showed where their house was (the former village police station) but where our room would be. “There’s someone in our room,” Gavan noted. It could have been the ghost of the famous physicist for whom the house was named  – a relative of Ian Boyes, the present owner – but more likely it was Pauline Boyes, getting stuff out of the linen closet.

It was much too early to check in and, in any event, we were heading for the Old Inn in the village ­– where we intended to have a nice meal. It was 1:05. The inn was a large hostelry, but the bar had been taken over for a private function and this left either the genteel restaurant or outdoor tables for the rest of the throng. I steered us, still laden with boots and packs, to the outside and got the drinks and a menu. I had a nice curry and we even spent some time deciding what we would have for our evening meal as well, since the Boyes, who do not do dinners, had booked us a table here. There was a lot of tourist life unfolding about us as we had our leisurely meal. At the next table there was a family from Denmark or Norway – trying to keep their kids from getting too bored.

After sitting in the still grey early afternoon I began to get chilly so I put my sweatshirt back on and, as most of the diners had left, we transferred ourselves to an inside table, with our packs piled up outside the ladies loo.

At 3:00 or so we decided to check in at Rutherford House. I paused to take some pictures of the village and we were accosted by a pest of a tourist who wanted to press her nose into our faces while she told us all the places she had visited in America. A few minutes later our knock was answered by a cheerful landlady, who took us upstairs to our room. She made it quite clear that she had no problem with our early arrival and showed us the nearby bath and toilet. Each of us had a shower.

Out in front the Boyes were having a tea party with some friends. Although they invited us to join in, we preferred to have a quiet rest for a while. Later I went down and sat in a swing in the front yard but Gavan remained shyly behind. The skies were now clearing rapidly and it was most pleasant to sit in the sun and watch the cars snaking up the steep road on the hillside opposite.

In our room there was a brochure with information about Ian Boyes. We read this with a little trepidation. I knew, from a phone conversation, that Ian had had something to do with the origins of the Two Moors Way. This, we now discovered, was because he had been – for sixteen years -–responsible for all public access routes in the national park. His hobbies were also listed: woodworking, engineering, leather crafts, and complementary medicine. Guests were invited to take advantage of his spiritual counseling, if needed. Ian himself had not made an appearance as we inched our way down the stairs, on the lookout for a loony. There were some German tourists at another outdoor swing and our host now appeared ­– looking surprisingly pale, though not at all loony. He proved to be quite friendly and knowledgeable and told me that he was soon going to return to the Antipodes, where he had often been called in as an advisor in the creation of long-distance paths. When we told him how we had gotten lost at the junction of the TMW and the Abbot’s Way he became irate, having heard this from other walkers, and insisted that we write to the current authorities.

At about 6:30 Gavan and I returned to the village and wandered about among the tourists before going in for dinner. Directly opposite us was a Widecombe restaurant in which the waitresses were dressed up in mob caps and pinafores; one of these ladies looked quite ludicrous chasing through the parking lot with a cell phone that some customer had left behind. Coaches of tourists came lurching by, now heading for home with their supply of daytrippers. The kitsch pottery shops and the National Trust Centre had closed for the day and for a while the ghosts of Tom Cobley and all (the subjects of a folk song about the ancient Widecombe fair) could find some rest.

I left Gavan, puffing on a cigar, and crossed the street to use a phone booth. By now it was well past 7:00 and we returned to the Old Inn for our evening meal. There was some confusion over our reservation, which turned out to be for 8:00, but we were seated at a small table near the gents. Gavan seemed quite preoccupied. He said he wanted a whiskey sour but when I pointed out to him that this was pretty much an American specialty he switched to a Diet Coke. To my surprise he ordered nothing but potato skins for his evening meal. I was beginning to worry that he was concerned about his supply of cash – for he had brought far too little with him for this trip – but he maintained that he wasn’t hungry because he had inhaled too much cigar smoke.

I ate a steak. Then we went outside again, intending to return for a nightcap, but failing to make good on this vow. We wandered around the now quiet village in the last of the sunlight and even located the exact spot where our lane for the next day headed steeply uphill opposite a school playground – where some girls were playing netball. I ate some berries off a bramble bush while Gavan disappeared around the corner for a pee. It was time to head back to our b&b and go to bed.

To continue with the next stage of our walk you need:

Day 3: Widecombe-in-the-Moor to Chagford