August 21, 1992: Chagford to Coleford

There was beautiful radiant sunshine as we rose in Chagford for the fourth day of our Two Moors Way walk on Friday, August 21. Indeed it would be our first day on this trip in which sunshine would be present for a good deal of the morning’s walk.

We descended to the breakfast room (no evening meals here currently because of staff shortages) and here we were joined by several other guests. We helped ourselves at the buffet to cereal and juice and I added one syrupy fig to my bowl. We were served by Mr. Willett; he had a skullcap of wavy black hair, turning grey at the edges. While we ate he asked us about our walk to this point. Unfortunately, I discovered –hours too late to do anything about it – that I had walked off from the breakfast table with a tiny hanky-sized square of gaily-printed cloth that had been provided as a napkin. It may be true that you get a paper napkin with your meal a bit more often in Britain these days but it is quite rare to get a cloth one at a b&b and I had just crumpled it up like any other handkerchief and stuffed it into my front pocket.

We were able to depart from Glendarah House, our bags fully packed and Gavan already in shorts, by 9:05. I wanted an early start because we had a full fourteen and a half mile day ahead of us.

We took only five minutes to walk down to the Rushford Bridge, where we crossed the River Teign, and met up again with the TMW. We passed the municipal swimming pool and reached Rushord Mill Farm, where a path led through the farmyard in the direction of the river’s north bank. We were heading in a northeasterly direction, following a thin trod in wet grass. Gavan was often considerably ahead of me so it was easy for me to see when there would be a gate or a stile up ahead. It was a lovely morning, not too warm, skies clearing, and excellent views ahead, particularly of the Lutyens-designed Castle Drogo, which stood directly above us on a dramatic hill top.

The wet path began to sweep moisture into the boots but there were soon dryer sections, including a woodland stretch that made it too dark for me to get any shots of the river. We emerged on the A382 at Dogmarsh Bridge. Ahead of us was a large field, just being vacated by the last of the participants in some sort of village fete, held the day before. A few lorries were still pulling out of the encampment and we were passed, perhaps for the first time on a long distance walk, by a convoy of portaloos making their way toward the exit.

At the end of the field we encountered something called the Fisherman’s Path, which continued to follow the river. After crossing a small stream we had to leave the Teign below us to climb, not too steeply, past a hamlet called Combe, passing beneath Hunter’s Tor to draw up directly below Castle Drogo itself. Gavan waited for me here, complaining of the many cobwebs he had forced his way through on the ascent. He is a bit of an arachnophobe and, only a few days earlier, he and Dorothy had watched the movie Arachnophobia, screaming periodically in horror and no doubt renewing their fear of spiders.

At our turnoff below the castle we switched directions again, heading back in the direction of the river on a much higher route called the Hunter’s Path. This began to swing around parallel to the river, climbing gradually into the sunshine in stunning surroundings. We contoured beneath the castle. Wild flowers were very much in evidence, heather predominating again, and far above the Teign Gorge on our right, we could see Sharp Tor beckoning us. There were wonderful views back down the valley to distant Chagford.

Exposed sections of the route put us in the sun, now providing considerable warmth, so when we had swung around to the tor itself I used a tourists’ bench to pause and put on my own shorts – the only time on the entire trip that I was able to do so. We had a nice rest, some liquid, and I used the occasion to add a little more tape to one toe. A couple of gay guys, practically arm-in-arm, strolled by looking for a path up to the castle grounds.

Then we moved forward in an easterly direction for just a couple of minutes, reaching Drewston Common and resuming our most common direction on this trip, north, ascending next the moorland of Piddledown Common. Here we climbed over a fence, getting views of Drewsteington, our next village. We descended to a woodland area and then had a steep climb on road into the town itself.

It was just about 11:00 and we had covered close to four miles. I wanted to use the village shop – we never ordered a packed lunch on this trip, relying either on pubs or snacks. I also wanted to make certain that we had plenty of liquid on what I thought might be a very warm day. Just as I reached the market square, with the shop at one end and the church and the pub at the other, I noticed that Gavan had crept into a telephone kiosk to call his mom in Connecticut. I remarked later that it had been only 6:00 in Connectcut, but he said his mom didn’t mind what time he called. I had time to take some photos and even to wander into the pub, which was wide open, without finding any sign of life.

I bought candy, fruit, and quite a few juice cartons in the shop. Here I also inquired about the pub and they assured me that it opened at 10:30 so, after loading up my pack with my latest purchases, Gavan and I returned to the Drewe Arms and I gave a shout. A woman’s voice answering from upstairs indicated that the pub was open and that she would be down to serve us in a moment. I could see another, ancient female figure, sitting silently in a rocking chair at the end of the hall, as the 73 year-old barmaid, Dorothy, eased her way down the steps on her arthritic knees. She proved to be quite a character.

She complained that her knees kept her from undertaking the kind of walk we were engaged in. She had no draft lager so I ordered a bottle, feeling a bit like Vera or Ivy in the Rovers Return. We were soon joined in a small and ancient snug by two elderly couples on tour. Once we had all been served old Dorothy sat down with us, as though it were also part of her duties to provide the entertainment. She answered many questions about the Drewe Arms and its 97 year-old owner, whom I had sighted earlier.

The pub belonged to Whitbread, but the company had been waiting for years for the incumbent licensee to die before tarting the place up. In the meantime the brewery had reached an understanding that it would do nothing for or against the pub. This place was a mess. The dartboard, for instance, was surrounded by thousands of tiny holes, each rusty with age, and the furniture was all nicked and broken. Our geriatric barmaid complained endlessly of the stinginess of her employer, noting that on the day that Dorothy’s husband had died the lady publican still wanted to know if she would be coming to work. This had resulted in a one-week strike. We also heard complaints about village life, of locals who once used the pub regularly selling out to Exeter University professors – who only dropped by on the weekends.

There was only one other topic of conversation – bacon. The tourists, hearing our accents, noted that they had recently been to Canada. This lead to a discussion of bacon, Canadian, American, and British. The tourists said they couldn’t fathom American bacon, it was so dry and crispy. Gavan came out of his shell to say that he had a roommate from Vancouver. We were having a really good time; it seemed quite a unique variation on the usual day’s march to find ourselves having such a civilized natter with strangers in such unusual surroundings, but – as we had covered less than a third of our route – it was finally time for us to pull on our packs and leave the pub at 12:30.

There was to be a good deal of road walking on this day and it began with a descent past Netherton House as we headed north. We crossed a ford and reached Veet Mill. Here we ascended a lane, covered in trees, as it paralleled a stream. At a marshy stile we crossed the stream itself and headed forward on a lane in more open country, past a farm called Winscombe, and then up a very steep tarmaced road to the A23 dual carriageway. A sliproad was actually used to cross over this busy artery and then we descended on Hasp Lane until we were able to plunge again into an agricultural countryside that would now predominate – not just for the next few hours but for days.

There were many stiles and gates about. On the previous day I had actually kept score, stiles having beaten gates 20-10 in a mock football match. Now that I was starting a new count Gavan got quite interested in this crazy competition. He invented, indeed, a new variation – baseball – which we then played for days. You could have the first obstacle encountered (gate or stile) bat in the top of the first; it remained at bat, continuing to add to its score, until its opposite number was encountered, registering the first score for the opposition in what could now be considered the bottom of the first. When the original team reappeared you had reached the top of the second, and so on. The first time we played this variation, stiles won again, but increasingly – as we got deeper into farmland – gates began to forge ahead. Gavan was a great partisan of gates and when both a stile and a gate were ahead of us he would often take extra time to get the gate open so it would score. This probably helped my back, as a matter of fact. There were moments when the two sides were in neck and neck battle; here Gavan would sometimes race around the corner to see what was coming next; no team ever scored more than four runs at a trot; once we had to go into the eleventh inning to settle a game.

We descended to a footbridge and climbed into a forest, using several other fords and footbridges as we passed West Farm. Then it was a steep climb up to Hill Farm and down to a footbridge, then a climb up to Whitehorn Farm, where a chorus of dogs (some of them hidden in the byre) warned us away from a place that was supposed to offer b&b. A track led out to a paved road at Hittsleigh Cross.

When I had mentioned to my friend Hugh Westacott that I was going to do the Two Moors Way he had sniffed about all the road walking required. In fact I don’t think this spoils the route as a whole, but we were certainly about to encounter the most boring stretch of tarmac on the trip. After Hittsleigh Cross it was down to a dip and up to Hittsleigh Barton. I tried to a take a picture of the church here but, after being obstructed initially by a telephone wire, I found I could get a much better shot be coming right up to the churchyard itself.

Then we had another long walk to Howards Cross, walking northeasterly on a road with very little traffic, but – because it was enclosed in hedges – very little to see. It was a ridgeway road so there were very few changes in elevation as the feet grew ever warmer on their way to a place called Trevince. Progress was measured in anything that broke up the monotony, even the Spreyton road at Down Road Cross counted here, as did Trevince Farm and Binneford Cross. Finally, as our turnoff appeared on the left, we could say goodbye to the Yeoford Road, sitting down at the junction and having a snack. Gavan also took a photo of me standing in my shorts in a hilly traffic island at this junction, posed beneath two TMW finger posts, one pointing back in the direction we had just come and the other in a westerly direction we would now have to travel.

We descended past Newbury to the River Troney. This had been the three quarters mark on the Paddington lap for this day but the river proved to be just a muddy slit. We continued forward on a track, reaching tarmac again, after a mile, at West Wotton Farm. We passed a number of farms and houses, going northeast again, until – just past a house called Hill Crest – we obtained a small track that allowed us to escape again. Here was a sinister collection of motorbikes and cars and their occupants; the latter were working on somebody’s motor and showering one another with expletives.

They paid no attention to us and we continued on our lane into a woods. Here the track turned very muddy indeed. We abandoned the surface whenever possible to take to the forest floor but there was, indeed, a great deal of slipping and sliding before we reached the bottom, where stiles scored well in getting us over a railway line. Then we ascended on a narrow, tree-enshrouded sunken track called Webber’s Lane. Cows looked in on us as we made this puffing ascent and there were a few drops from a sky that had been turning increasingly gray.

We ignored these and soon reached a paved road at Whelmstone Cross. We were now getting fairly near the end of this day’s march, though we did pause to take some pictures of an exotic cockerel as we neared Whelmstone Barton. Here a man with an Italian accent urged us to get in before the rain. We reached a TMW turnoff into a cornfield but now we had to say goodbye to the route for the day in order to reach our night’s rest.

I had spent a great deal of time trying to obtain accommodation for this stage of the trip, since there are no villages on the route here at all and I knew that we favor a spot where we can get a drink at the end of the day – rather than some isolated farmstead or b&b. I had tried to get into Bow, some two miles to the west of the TMW, using two numbers given me by tourist information in Crediton. When I called back to report failure on both counts the helpful advice lady said, “But I’m from Bow; I wonder what’s going on there that I don’t know about.” She then suggested I try the New Inn in Coleford, giving a personal testimony on the quality of the food. I had been successful here and so now Gavan and I were heading a mile and a half off route, following roads to the east.

We passed the red soil of Ford Farm and then had a very steep climb to a road junction where a Coleford sign served to keep us going. We persevered, going ever more slowly however, and descended to a delightful village, full of white thatched cottages, including one where Charles I had reviewed troops from the portico of a front porch. We reached the New Inn at 4:55. This proved to be a very large roadhouse, with perhaps only three or four rooms.

There seemed to be nobody about and nobody answered when we knocked at the front door. While I sat at a table out front Gavan went behind. He too reported failure, but I don’t think he went far enough, having encountered a barking dog with a blue bone who wanted to play. We sat for another five minutes and there were a few more drops. Just at this time, the proprietress, Mrs. Butt, was making some adjustments to her window boxes and I was able to get her attention. She then had us return to the rear car park, past the blue bone, and in through a rear entrance.

We were shown upstairs to our room, which overlooked the bench where we had been sitting, and we started to unpack. There was a wonderful old wardrobe in this room with a stand for canes and umbrellas and drawers for “Sundries” and “Requisites.” We each had a nice bath but as I was returning from mine I stubbed my bare toe on a step and it sent an almost electric shock up my leg. I was really afraid, for about thirty seconds, that I had done myself some serious injury, but by 6:30 I was well enough to head downstairs to the bar.

I drank a lager first and then switched to vodka and orange, trying to cut down on the amount of liquid I might later have to offload in the middle of the night. A caged parrot named Captain was squawking his heart out but eventually he ran out of steam, put his head under a wing, and fell asleep in the middle of a very lively scene. There were no seats left in the dining room presided over by Mrs. Butt, but we were able to order at the bar and eat in the pub. After my gentle nagging on not stinting himself because of cash flow problems, Gavan splashed out and ordered the surf and turf. I had prawn cocktail and a curry again.

After dinner I went outside and headed toward a phone box that Gavan had spotted. The village urchins were playing some violent game and one bully was pounding his friends with a stick. After talking to Dorothy I returned to the inn and, after a while upstairs, Gavan and I returned to a quiet corner of the pub for some Baileys and some cigars. We were pretty weary and there was another long day waiting for us – so we had an early night.

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

Day 5: Coleford to Witheridge