TRAVEL DARTMOOR
Answering the call of
The slow-burning charm of rural Devon is impossible to ignore, writes Gavin Bell
S
ir Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t do Dartmoor any favours. A sinister, fogshrouded wasteland stalked by a murderer and a hound from hell awaited Sherlock Holmes in the spinechilling case of The Hound Of The Baskervilles. He omitted to mention grasslands ablaze with gorse and heather, sun-dappled rivers meandering through woods and meadows, zany dances at folk festivals and the heroic exploits of the Rugglestone Inn tug o’ war team. That’s not to say it was his fault. Times have changed since Sir Arthur visited the moors, heard legends of diabolical black beasts with blood-red eyes preying on travellers after dark, and penned one of his classic mysteries. Dartmoor National Park, the largest and wildest open country in southern England, is now a place for holidays rather than horror. Any strange sounds heard after dark are more likely to emanate from folk singers in pubs than supernatural creatures. My wife and I find a bunch of the former in the Oxenham Arms, a 12th-century coaching inn in the village of South Zeal, during the Dartmoor Folk Festival. This is an annual event that draws thousands of enthusiasts for a weekend of traditional music and dancing, including a step dance competition on a 15in square board in the back of a hay wagon. While professional musicians perform in a nearby hall, patrons in the bar of The Ox amuse themselves and anyone who cares to join in with lusty renditions of sea shanties and working men’s songs from Cornwall to Northumbria. This is no drunken bawling, but harmonious ballads by men with fine voices singing for the love of it. The tin mines that inspired some of the songs are long gone from Dartmoor, and the high moors are the domain of untamed ponies born free in the wind-blown cotton grass. The vistas of wild, lonely land are immense, with skylines dominated by tors – jumbles of massive stones squeezed up as molten granite through the earth’s crust 280 million years ago. Like ruins of ancient hilltop forts, they are the sentinels of a bygone age. Among the most impressive is Hound Tor, standing imperiously above traces of a medieval settlement. Over the years it has gained a reputation for ghostly sightings, and even under kind skies it has a mystical presence. This was noted by Sherlock Holmes, and later by BBC producers who used it as a location for an episode of Doctor Who. With artistic licence, Conan Doyle ignored the fact the moors are surrounded by wooded valleys, where hamlets of thatched cottages nestle in farmland among dry stone walls and hedgerows. This is hobbit territory, where roses ramble on honey-coloured stone walls, and country lanes are full of butterflies and songbirds. The patchwork of fields, meadows and woodland is criss-crossed by a maze of narrow lanes barely wide enough for a single vehicle, bounded by high hedges. Driving is a slow affair, periodically interrupted by cows, horses and tractors.
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Approaching the market town of Moretonhampstead – the longest one-word place name in England – we find the road blocked by a man in a car and another on a horse who have stopped for a chat. In no hurry to go anywhere, we pull into a passing place and wait, and when the rider and motorist move on, we receive cheery waves of thanks.
The Dartmoor landscape, dotted with granite tors and wild ponies, has more than a passing resemblance to the Shire imagined by JRR Tolkien in Lord Of The Rings
Our base for the weekend is North Bovey, a hamlet of thatched houses around a village green that boasts a 13th-century church, a pub and a community hall. Regulars in the Ring of Bells pub include farriers, sheep shearers and a mole catcher, drawn by a cheery ambience and the local Otter real ale. This gives rise to car stickers saying: “I could murder an otter.” The pub is where we collect keys to Moorland View, a cottage a few steps away that has my wife sighing with delight. It is the kind of luxurious
PHOTOGRAPH: ADAM BURTON/ PHOTOLIBRARY.COM
IN TOMORROW’S SUNDAY HERALD MAGAZINE
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hideaway Bilbo Baggins might have lived in if he had won the lottery – oodles of character and comfort in a mix of traditional West Country style and mod cons, including a wireless digital sound system and a wondrous copper and tin bath that could accommodate a small family. In the morning the sun warms a bench by the front door, and in the late afternoon it shines on a seat by a lily pond in the garden. One day we are woken by a clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and find a leaflet by the door announcing that orders are being taken for this year’s lamb. For £46 we can have half a lamb butchered, cut, packed and labelled for easy freezing, or a half carcass of mutton “finished slowly on herb-rich meadows”. In rural Devon, who needs supermarkets? We could have gone for a hike on the moors, or even signed up with Dartmoor Llama Walks and had our picnic lunch transported by the ponysized animals, but we opt for a more sedate stroll