August 24, 1992: Tarr Steps to Simonsbath

When we pulled the curtains on our room at the Tarr Steps Hotel on the morning of Monday, August 24th, we were happy to see a watery sunshine. I put our boots on the windowsill, hoping to squeeze a little more moisture out of them, and we went down to a lovely breakfast served by the ever-efficient hotel staff.

We got our gear together rather slowly. I didn’t want to reach Withypool and the Royal Oak pub too early in the day – although the bar-time conversation of the previous evening had alerted us to the fact that our noontime pub was in the hands of publicans who, in 1992, ran a fascist regime in a Somerset inn. I paid by credit card and then remembered that I hadn’t been credited with my deposit. Desmond, very much in casual garb this morning, had also realized this and was ready with £25 in cash: this would be one of the few times I would leave a hotel with more cash than when I arrived. Desmond told me that he welcomed dogs should we want to return some time in the future. (But, alas, some years later this establishment ceased to offer accommodation– having become a private home again.) Gavan and I left at 9:37. By this time there was a tiny spider in our bathtub.

We retraced our route to the TMW and descended to the Barle at the famous Tarr Steps, a kind of extended clapper bridge made of slabs that might possibly be traced back to Neolithic times. We used the bridge to cross to the east bank where I wrestled to get a decent picture in poor light.

We now headed in a northerly direction along the riverbank. I had the guidebook with me but the river took so many twists and turns in unvarying woodland scenery that it was soon hard for me to figure out just how far we had come. Liscombe Wood gave way to Knaplock Wood and then became Great Wood – which was followed by Lea Wood, Park Wood, Mill Wood and Pit Wood. All of this was very lovely. There was plenty of water in the river after the recent rains, islands with bridges to the other side and no one else about – not even fishermen. The route was sometimes a bit damp but it was all level and easy to traverse.

Eventually we came out into the open at a large meadow where a sign asked walkers and those on horseback to stay close to the river rather than cut a corner over the field. I could at last see where we were. We climbed our first hill of the day up to Oakbeer Wood and then straightened out to head due north for another mile. Gradually signs of civilization returned, especially as we neared the highway to Dulverton. On our left we could now see the rooftops of Withypool, which we reached by climbing a stile onto the road and heading downhill into the village. It was easy to locate the pub but I spent some time peeking around and taking a picture of some of the cottages. It was 12:00.

No sooner had we stepped inside when one of the guys behind the bar ordered us to leave our packs in the hall. At least we fared better than several families, who – because they had kids with them – were banished from the hostelry altogether! This seemed an especially cruel act because, sure enough, it was beginning to rain again. Anal compulsion ruled the place – which was very neat, if not very friendly.

It was too early to think about lunch so we settled for scampi fried chips and some peanuts while I drank a pint and a half of lager and Gavan drank three. We each had a whiskey. About 1:00 I put on my rain paints while Gavan went to the gents to do the same. While he was gone he managed to squeeze in another dram on the other side of the pub – even though I had said I thought we should go now. I wanted to get going because we had been told that the village shop would close in five minutes.

By the time we had arrived at this spot the ladies were indeed trying to close but they let us buy some fudge and fruit and some more newspapers. I took Gavan’s picture as he emerged from the shop: I was hiding beneath the eaves of a petrol station across the street.

We made a small mistake leaving town. I had hidden the guidebook once again but I remembered reading something about leaving Withypool on a road marked “No through road.” Such a road was immediately in front of us and we were soon heading west. But after a quarter of a mile I began to feel that we were not rising fast enough and that we were too close to the river. So we had to return to town. We had been meant to leave town on a road marked “No through road” behind the post office/store. Red waymarks now proved useful in our ascending four fields above the schoolhouse (where someone pounded violently on the window as we passed).

Moisture was leaking into our necks as we reached a lane that we could follow in a northwesterly direction for some distance. It seemed to me that a number of features of the route had been added since the guidebook had been printed and this led me to ask Gavan a number of times if he thought we were on the right track (literally). At least I had noticed that the guidebook had printed sections of the route in the wrong order so that we were now on the bottom of the page when we should have been at the top. On the whole, though, the Devon Ramblers’ Association official guidebook had proved to be quite useful. It consisted mostly of detailed strip maps but there was also some text by Helen Rowett; this was the first time I remember using a trail guide written by a woman – but it would not be the last.

I was trying to pass the time with more story telling and, as we rose to a height of 380 meters, I was offering Gavan a portrait of my former Michigan State colleague, Fred Kaplan, who was visiting London at the time. Visibility was very poor and we could just make out the other side of the Barle Valley. Gavan was growing concerned about a feature he could not see on his OS map: motor cars crossing our route at a right angle. I had a look at the map and sure enough there was a plain yellow line, indicating an unenclosed stretch of tarmac, which we soon crossed.

We were encountering more wild ponies. There was, at one point, a wonderful charge in our direction by six or seven of these wild beasts, rushing to join some mates on our left. We edged around the top of a gully, careful not to begin our descent too soon; later we had to choose between a yellow and a red waymark. We had been paralleling a large bend of the river and we could now see a forested stretch at the riverside, which was our signal to descend steeply.

Once inside the trees we had a brief rest on a bank, sheltered a bit from the rain. Just as we did so a large party of walkers came in behind us and continued forward along the river toward Simonsbath – a more direct assault on our objective but not the Two Moors Way. We stared with some incredulity at the “ford” to the other side, a deep stretch of roiling water, before spotting a footbridge. On the south bank things were not clear on the ground but we headed along a muddy path downstream and soon reached a track that headed south, uphill, away from the river.

Thus we began a steep climb that curved around and crossed a stream (with many inquiries to Gavan if this seemed right). On the other side of the stream the track continued in a more westerly direction. Just as we reached a gate a large herd of cattle rounded a corner and headed toward us at a trot. We stood up on a bank and the cows and some dogs passed. Not so the cowboy, who was having a devil of a time with a skittish horse who wouldn’t budge. I assumed, after the struggle had gone on for a while, that we should perhaps pass on, but when I stepped off the bank the horse shied away, amid curses from its rider.

We slogged forward in the rain. I had switched topics; by this time I was providing Gavan with a portrait of my stepmother and my relations with her over the years. (A few weeks later she moved into a Tucson retirement center at age 82.) Such conversation helped pass the time on a misty day where there wasn’t much to intrigue the eye. Just as we reached the top of a ridge near Horsen Farm the cowboy returned, coming across a field on our left. He was still cursing his reluctant horse.

I was now surprised by the appearance of tarmac, for the road we had now reached was not colored yellow on the OS map. Nevertheless it had received a coat of tarmac and this permitted us to make some more rapid progress westward. There were practically no landmarks to give us encouragement, but at last Wintershed farm (and one other house not on the map) loomed up ahead of us. Two miles of this lane walking, with a hedge on our right, brought us out to a road junction called Blue Gate. It had been another thoroughly miserable afternoon – perhaps not what was wanted on my 200th day of walking on British footpaths.

However, having reached a height of 456 meters, we were now in a position to begin a rapid descent to Simonsbath but once again we would be leaving the TMW to seek our accommodation, now a mile and a half away. There were quite a few cars on this road but there was a verge most of the way and it wasn’t long before we had crossed another bridge over the Barle and entered a sprawling community with a number of hotels about.

The latter fact came as a bit of a shock to me; having seen the hotel symbol on the OS map I had assumed this must refer to our hotel – but there was no sight of it as we reached the B3358 after a thirteen mile day. All of a sudden I started to panic: suppose ours was a mile and a half out of town? Gavan went into one of the ubiquitous potteries and came back with the good news that our hotel, The Exmoor Forest Hotel, was just around the corner to the east. The proprietor was out front instructing some workmen and he led us into his establishment and sent us to off to room 2 on the first floor. It was 5:20.

Our room was not special (after the Tarr Steps anything would pale) and, indeed Gavan kept complaining about the filthy toilet rim, something I did not understand until I went into the bathroom with my glasses on. But we did have, for the first time, TV, and we watched some before the pub opened. Once again we exploded our packs and dried off our maps. Just about the entire contents of my pack could now be classified as dirty clothes. Newspaper went into out boots.

Both of us ordered the sirloin steak from the menu on the wall of the pub – but they only had one and so I switched to a rump steak while the proprietress climbed on the bar to erase the redundant offering from the chalkboard. There were lots of locals about and she was on to them about council business. “The only reason I voted Tory,” she added, “was to save my hunting.” I disdained a cigar at this point, much to Gavan’s disappointment, but we had a few more drinks. I spoke to Dorothy who was by this time sulking over the desertion, “Why don’t you come home now?” she wanted to know.

It was still raining. This was the last night of the trip and Gavan actually reached over in the dark to grab my hand, “Tell me something that will make me feel good about myself.” I mumbled a few appropriate words but I had already taken a sleeping pill and so we had only this brief echo of the ending of many a previous night on the trail.

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

Day 8: Simonsbath to Lynmouth