Out and Doing

At this time of year Dartmoor weather is, at best, mixed. Yesterday was a beautiful January day: bright and sunny, not too cold and as we drove the slow road to Okehampton to collect the new gas stove, all we really wanted to do was get out and walk the moor.

It wasn’t to be: the stove came first and then we paused at the farmers’ market (third Saturday of each month and excellent North Devon fish, if the boats have been able to get out from Bideford) and poked around in Red Lion Yard, looking for a table. It was too late to walk by the time we were home and there were (as there always are) jobs to do in the garden. This time taking out the David Austin roses we planted five years ago, which we have reprieved each year despite their constant failure, and replacing them with five Roseraie de l’Hay Rugosas. These have spent the winter in containers and so should be thankful to be out and in the soil. I am keeping my fingers crossed that they will do better than their predecessors.

January is a quiet month in the garden, but there are signs of spring everywhere, buds on the clematis, red tipped peony shoots breaking the surface and the early green of daffodils and crocus. It is still winter, with colder weather forecast for next week, but everything is getting going. As we packed up for the day, we agreed that a short walk over Hound Tor would be just right for today.

Instead of the sun we expected, we woke to a grey, cloudy morning. For a number of reasons, we haven’t had a proper walk on the moor this year, and the route we intended was scarcely difficult. Nonetheless it is a pretty route, down from Hound Tor through the remains of the mediaeval village and across Becka Brook before a steepish climb up to Smallacombe Rocks and then round, down and back across the Brook. All in all, it cannot be more than four miles and all along well-trodden paths. Only at the last moment did we decide to take the OS map, as we reckoned we knew the way well.

The Hound Tor car park was half full although the cloud was too low to see the Tor. It cleared as we skirted the ruined village. Abandoned at the time of the Black Death, each time we walk past it, I wonder what life was like living on Dartmoor 600 years ago. Although the village is tucked down, sheltered from the prevailing westerlies, it must have been hard and bleak sheep farming right on the edge of the moor, especially in winter.

It was good to be “out and doing”, aware of muscles softened by the Christmas lay off and enjoying the freedom we always feel when walking. Under Smallacombe Rocks we climbed into the cloud base – and lost our bearings. We struck off south but followed the wrong route. It was a matter of degrees only but with no landmarks to guide us, we then took a wrong turn, compounding the error. Instead of meeting the old granite tramway, we missed it, probably by little more than 100 yards. Busy talking, we quickly found ourselves some half a mile further on than we should have been. It was then map and compass work (and thank goodness we had them), and back across the gorse, neither of us wearing gaiters but wishing we had, before we found the tramway, and the route.

The weather lifted for the last mile and in boots and waterproofs, with sticks, we felt rather overdressed among the Sunday morning walkers on Hound Tor. Next week we will be back on the northern moor, and there will be no question of not taking map and compass.

Flowers on New Year’s morning

I don’t think that Moretonhampstead is any different a community to any other. Living among people involves much more than simply acknowledging them across the street. The importance of acts of kindness and consideration, of shared concerns, reminds us of this each and every day. We are not always very good about these small gestures but the events of yesterday afternoon and this morning brought this home to me.

A wet and cold afternoon walk yesterday had taken us out from Headless Cross on Mardon. North towards Exmoor, there was a last glimpse of sun and we could just see the very bottom of a rainbow. We were losing the light, and were not going to be out long. We hurried along the muddy track across the heath land, turning back towards the Land Rover into a bitter north westerly wind, rain stinging our cheeks. Foggy is too old and tired to come up to Mardon any more, so when we got home, we took him out for his afternoon jaunt. He doesn’t like the cold and wet and it is now a very short walk. Making our way back across the top of the Inner Sentry we met Eunice. She told us that Sophie, Sylvia’s blind lurcher was lost, somewhere on the path back from Mardon. Eunice had been told, she said, by Roly Brinacombe, and, she then added, half the village was out looking for Sophie. Somewhat of an exaggeration but a number of people had been or were out.

Poor Sylvia. Whatever the weather, Sylvia, who must now be in her early 70s, walks Sophie up to Mardon and back. We hadn’t seen them on our walk, as we often do, but Caroline had said, as we had turned for home, that she expected that Sylvia would by then be on her way back.

Leaving Foggy with me, Caroline joined Eunice in the search. Through the graveyard, they reached the bottom of Lime Street and started to walk the back way up to Mardon. Given a lift by Arthur in his Land Rover to the top of the lane, from there they cut across the fields below Mardon. No sign of Sophie anywhere. I was at home when one of our neighbours, Judy called; Sophie had been found and was safe home with Sylvia. Graham Wilson’s son, home for the New Year, had found her in one of the bottom fields. I am still unclear how she became separated from Sylvia; something about a gate that Sylvia had been unable to open and Sophie, blind, had found herself in a field with no way out of, because of the wire. Next Caroline got back. She and Eunice had been out over an hour until the light had gone. They had walked back to Sylvia’s, to find Sophie safe home. Later that evening, Arthur’s wife, Jeanie had called for news. All’s well that ends well. The church bells rang in the New Year at midnight and we both felt that it had been a very good end to a mixed year.

Mid morning and there is a knock at the front door. It was Sylvia, with flowers for Caroline. “But I didn’t even find Sophie”, Caroline said. For Sylvia that was not the point. She simply wanted to say thank you.