August 20, 1992: Widecombe-in-the-Moor to Chagford

On the morning of Thursday, the 20th of August, we took our seats for breakfast in the dining room of Rutherford House, taking up a table next to Ian Boyes’ tape collection – his country and western carefully separated from his meditation and folk tapes. It had been raining and it was still quite gray outside.

We got as far as the post office stores, where Gavan fell on the lurid headlines about Fergie’s indiscretions, the famous photos on her naughty holiday having been published this day. I went inside to buy sandwiches and other snacks and ended up with some Tom Cobley mineral water. The proprietor was annoyed at the sight of my pack and warned me not to knock anything off his sparsely stocked shelves. He was quite short when I asked him where I could mail a postcard; like most country post offices the answer to the question was, curiously, not here. I had to go outside and use a pillar box in a neighbor’s wall. Gavan disdained the purchase of sandwiches, but he did buy some candy bars.

I used a skip to get rid of the leftovers from our Tuesday lunch and we continued forward to the foot of our steep lane, leaving Widecombe at 9:10. I had been trying to figure out the shape of the route up this steep hillside from the postcard of the village sent to us by the Boyes family and now I was to have all my questions answered. The ascent was very sharp indeed. We followed an enclosed track for some time and then, as we neared open moorland, the rutted track of an old bridleway. A farmer was out checking on his sheep and one of his dogs came over to have a suspicious look at these two intruders as we neared the top of the ridge.

We rounded a fence and turned north, once again on the TMW, and headed off in a northwesterly direction. There was a cow standing in a raised field and peering over the wall and we paused for some photos before beginning a climb. The gradients were not too extreme and the walking on turf and path was excellent. The views, in spite of the clouds, were still excellent and this was clearly an exhilarating place to be. There were many wild ponies about and it was interesting to see the imprints of their hooves without the usual horseshoe in evidence. August heather again covered the hillsides.

As we continued forward the weather began to deteriorate; mist began to obscure all the distant views and we expected at any moment that we would have to don raingear. Fortunately there were quite a few landmarks that could be used to gauge our progress along the ridge. First we reached a cairn on Hameldown Beacon, where we were joined for a while by a stone wall. And then there were a series of Neolithic burial chambers emerging from the mist as we neared each: Two Barrows, Single Barrow, Broad Barrow. The path actually bisected the latter. Some of these mounds bore plinths in which barrow was spelled burrow; it sounded as though we were visiting the graves of dead donkeys.  We passed the remains of an ancient stone cross, Hamel Down Cross, and reached a summit at the cairns of Hameldown Tor.

In spite of the mist it was possible to make out roads and buildings at some distance; Gavan and I spent some time speculating on whether the white structure several miles distant was the Warren House Inn on the B3312. Immediately before us was a grand sight: a descent to the best preserved Bronze Age enclosure on Dartmoor, Grimspound. It looked just like the heather-covered postcard photo I had bought at Holne and this shot, taken from Hookney Tor – which towered above the enclosure on the north – must have been taken at the same time of year as our current visit.

The guidebook of the TMW seemed to indicate that the route passes on the eastern side of Grimspound, but the path on the ground headed directly for the entranceway and we were soon poking around the ruins. It seemed to me particularly ironic to see that an enclosure such as this, which had undoubtedly been used as a corral for animals, was still serving the same function again – for Grimspound was full of wild ponies on this day, though they were free to come and go at a number of low spots in the wall.

There were some other visitors nearby as we climbed steeply up to rocks at the top of Hookney Tor. It was still misty and somewhat chilly and I was reminded a number of times today of early walks on the Pennine Way. We had some difficulty finding a northwesterly descent from the Tor down to a crossing track that took the TMW across a motor road. We could see plenty of cars on the latter so there was no problem figuring out where we were, but we ended up on the road too early and had to head north on it in order to reach the track.

We found a nice thin trod over Birch Tor and followed it in a westerly direction, getting far enough away from the road to have a clandestine pee on the exposed moorland. Here it was also possible to note another change in the weather, but a very desirable one, for the sun was burning the mist away and blue skies were replacing grey. An easy ascent of the tor was accompanied by radiant sunshine, lighting up the heather in its purple mountain majesty. As we dropped down to the B3312 visibility had improved markedly and we could see the parking lot at Bennett’s Cross and, a kilometer distant, the Warren House Inn.

We reached the ancient stone cross in a few minutes but decided not to add to today’s thirteen miles by diverting to the inn as well. Instead we gingerly crossed the road and found a route that circled around the southern end of North Walla Brook as the path ascended another northerly ridge. I’m not sure that we found just the right route along this height. There were plenty of tracks about but I never discovered another pound that should have been on our left. We were looking for a dry place to sit down and eventually discovered some rocks overlooking the valley of North Walla Brook. Gavan was now eager to share in my sandwiches, cream cheese and onion and prawn mayonnaise, both of which were excellent. Fruit juice and an apple followed.

The improvement in the weather signaled a splendid afternoon for walking and we were soon off. I tried to ease us a little bit more to the west over wet grass and eventually we could see the marshy headwaters of Metherall Brook on our left. Far ahead, as the fences of farms started to reappear, there was a line of trees that served as a good guidepost. We kept to the left of fences ahead of us, the first signs of an agricultural interlude that would put an end to moorland walking for a while. Gavan was complaining about his tired legs, his back, his headaches. Surprisingly, the senior walker with his own catalogue of complaints – a sore left shoulder, a tennis elbow of the right arm, a sore bottom, a tired arch in the right foot – suffered very little from any of these ailments on this trip and in fact had fewer complaints than a walking partner 34 years his junior.

Just before reaching the road to Fernworthy Reservoir (the half way point on this lap of the Paddington track) I paused to take off my sweatshirt, wearing only my Detroit Bad Boys t-shirt for the rest of the day. Then we used pavement, not too pleasant after the grassy moorland, and turned in a northeasterly direction down to a cattle grid at the bottom of a hill where the TMW joins the Mariner’s Way for a few miles. I wonder what the ancient mariners who used this route would have thought of the skull and crossbones on my shirt.

Farm tracks and field paths, gates and stiles marked our progress for the next few miles as we continued north in an agricultural countryside. We first passed through the farm of Yardworthy and then descended in woodland to the South Teign River. There followed a very steep climb up to Teignworthy, a country hotel that was in the process of fixing itself up. Then, after a few route-finding doubts, we took a narrow fenced path out to a farmstead called Great Frenchbeer. “I could use one of those right now,” I commented.

Boldventure farm was next on our list but then there was a brief respite as we passed through a delightful woodland before emerging in some marshy fields just south of the road at Teigncombe. Here we turned east to descend quite briskly on a narrow walled lane to Leigh Bridge, where the South Teign joins the North Teign – to become just the Teign. I was a bit irked by this stretch. There was a bit too much road walking, access to the riverside had been thwarted by private landowners and there was not a single place for walkers to sit down.

We had a steep hill to climb, passing a private house with a beautiful garden cascading down its back lawn. I noticed this when I climbed a bank in a vain attempt to find a resting place. Then, after catching our first views of Chagford, we dropped down to Holystreet Manor, a school. There were no students about nor any indication to motorists that they might present a hazard. Instead, twice, the real priorities of the place were revealed in signs indicating, “Caution: nervous horses.” When are such beasts not nervous, I wanted to know.

We continued forward, accompanied by a clear stream on its way to the river, and reached a kennel, well-advertised by its barking retinue. At the next crossroads, the TMW crosses the Chagford Bridge to attain the north side of the river (and a little better access) but we had to turn away now in order to finish the last mile into Chagford itself. We paused for a rest on a bridge abutment before climbing another steep hill up to the level of the town, certainly the largest community visited on the whole route.

Chagford was having a weeklong festival of some sorts and bunting was strung across the streets of a quite charming country town. There were many shops – essentially for a local population – and many pubs and restaurants. We paused to examine the menus posted outside these establishments because we would once again have our evening meal in town. It was a little past 4:00 and just beyond the market square we discovered that a hotel pub was open. Delightedly we sat down for a pint. Gavan smoked one of the cigars and sulked a bit when I said I didn’t want to join him. “You always win,” he complained. “But this isn’t a contest,” I replied. He then drank another pint.

 

After an hour we left. I found myself reciting a line from Julius Caesar, “You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown which he did thrice refuse.” It took me a while to figure out the subconscious association: we had been drinking at the Three Crowns.

Now we headed in a northeasterly direction, as though we were leaving town, walking down to our b&b, Glendarah House, arriving here at 5:10. It proved to be a very nice place. Mrs. Willet led us upstairs and showed us our room, adjacent to the bathroom and toilet. Gavan immediately jumped into the tub and began tapping out a message in Morse Code on the wall. I got cleaned up as well and at about 6:30 we headed back up to town. As we were leaving another gentleman and a black cat entered the front door; I assumed they both belonged here. After having a look in the windows of some estate agents we chose the very first pub we had encountered that afternoon. It had an extensive menu and, in spite of smelling like old chip grease, it suited us just fine. We ordered at the “servery” and soon Gavan was eating a curry and I a scampi and chips at a table in the bar. We had several drinks while the locals crowded in and it was almost dark by the time we emerged onto the street again.

We took a stroll through the churchyard and then sat down on a bench opposite the Jubilee Hall, where an mc on a microphone was conducting the Chagford festival’s version of Game Night. Outside, the children of the contestants were swarming in a playground, shooting out onto the street on their bikes, and filling the air with expletives.

After half an hour, as it got chillier, I suggested that we should perhaps return to our b&b. Gavan had to use the loo and I had spotted some public toilets in the market square. When he emerged from these I took his place inside but when I came out he was nowhere to be seen. I toured the square but I saw no sign of him and continued on my own down the hill in the direction of Glendarah House. Gavan was soon running back up the hill toward me, in a panic because I hadn’t followed him immediately. We then continued together along the not very well-lit street, arriving at our destination at 9:30.

There was a call box just inside the front door and I stationed myself on a little stool in order to hear just how Toby had managed to get rid of the sock over his bandaged foot today. By this time Gavan had recovered his good humor and we soon had the lights out.

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

Day 4: Chagford to Coleford