Previously on walking Dartmoor.
A combination of remembering the importance of choosing the right place to camp; It has to look flat as a billiard table. Tiredness, and getting used to sleeping on the moor again, meant I had a cracking nights sleep. Dog2 as far as can be judged simply does not move. He is not too keen to start the mornings and chooses to get back into the bivvy bag at any opportunity given him.
4am went past, I barely batted an eyelid. Indeed I did not stir till 5.30am. This is normal waking time, so things seem to be just about fine.
Out of my bivvy bag, avoiding a cold shower from condensation from the tarp. Technically I did not really need the tarp, but it creates a sense of place, of home, its an illusion of security and normality. Illusion is all we ever really have.
I felt good, no stiffness, which was largely a product of not actually pushing myself, it is not about the miles travelled, it is about the experience gained. Rush hour is for rushing.
Today was Nun’s Cross Farm, a big destination for me. But first there was a lot to be seen and explored before that happened.
I had no intention of visiting Pew Tor and surrounds this time, but from my vantage point and the clear morning air, I could make out the square of the hedged off cottage garden which nestles at the base of Pew Tor. I knew at that moment, time was going to have to be set aside. I saw the occasional glistening glass of a vehicle travelling along the road near Merrivale. That was the road which would take me so easily there from Princetown.
Merrivale itself could just be made out. The collection of stone rows, circles and menhir, mystical meaning. Once so powerful the passage of time had robbed us of their original power and given them a different one, perhaps the same one just wrapped up in different terms.
I sat in a thousand year silence which was an illusion itself, 100 years ago and less this was an industrial landscape busy with men working granite, a hard life pitted against a hard substance. The ponies remain, but they are animals of leisure now.
If stones could talk what lessons would we understand. Had the Merrivale rows gone mad? Did they jabber nonsense? Or were they talking to us now, with so much time on their hands they gave up their secrets to successive generations if we only had time to stop and listen carefully. Archaeologists must learn to listen to the stones.
You can get lost here, the past to present ratio is unbalanced, here it is all past. Everything is the past, the future is about preserving what was once. A place of lost memory and some of those were forgotten for a reason. Time to move forward on my journey, I know there is a bleakness central to these introspections which it is not good to touch on. The day is beautiful, everyone from grunting caveman to rocketman can enjoy days like these, they connect us all in shared joy.
I am back, one chap and his dog on the moor, my place in the passage of endless time relocated.
I stand at the hummocks and earthworks that once made sense, but without the tracks to guide and clarify the times when one siding was active or not, it is just a confusing jumble of rounded grass banks. Foggintor Quarry, an impressive ruin leading the eye, the feet follow.
Large granite blocks are embedded in the hard ground at regular intervals. The original purpose clear. The wooden horse-drawn railway was lain on top of them to move the granite.
This was the quarry from which Nelsons column was hewn. It is a landscape of monument. London Bridge just down the line, the Falklands memorial on the horizon, Nelson’s column here. And that is just the tip of the iceberg. Standing here I am connected by granite seams to the monuments which were meant to endure.
The quarry itself existed, but nature is reclaiming it, the buildings are ruinous. For all our bluster man had only borrowed this landscape for a while, nature is healing the wounds over timescales too mind boggling to even look into.
The quarry approach is boggy, water runs out of it, I have no desire to venture into the cauldron. Signs are posted warning those with more adventure than sense what could befall them. I have nothing to prove to my little dog, I am his hero. No daredevil pranking needed to impress an audience.
John Noakes had famously scrambled too the top of Nelson’s column to clean it. Boosting himself over the parapet to lay panting at Nelson’s feet. My young stomach had done flip-flops, Noakes was very brave. Seeing the clip again, Noakes was very stupid. “He wasn’t insured” is the modern complaint, but it seems minor compared to the real risks he took.
We visit the big house, a one wall ruin occupied by sheep lazing in the sun. Another destination has been ticked off, too long has this building been a hazy image, semi-organised granite against a jumbled backdrop. It’s not there forever that is clear. A 1942 image shows buildings with roofs, the bustle of industry has gone, but the mechanism remains. I am witnessing a fleeting moment in time and glad to before it is just an old photo, the last fragment. What was once so solid, imposing, is now fragile, failing.
The building has the hint of an upper storey and a back wall. It stands on the edge of its own mini-quarry, an odd archway is beneath it, purpose unknown but it looks all function.
I linger here, the place is mine to explore, nobody else is about this time of day, just the woolly guard and a sign telling me I have been warned if I get into difficulty it’s my own stupid fault. A bird sings to me while I am there, stands on a boulder to do so. These birds are the soundscape. When I leave, I leave it to nature, it is their place really, we were just a passing phase.
Water has begun to occupy my mind. There is always something which takes dominance. One year I developed a craving for a kebab with extra chilli sauce. It was the year of the bland food.
I had packed what was needed and forgotten to pack any taste. Soups, porridge, the over-riding memory is of grey food. I remember clearly the discovery of a bright red packet of crisps. Ready Salted, it was like manner from heaven. Salt, the taste was of the gods. I have never been able to recreate this taste sensation, but enough of the experience lingers that it is recollected each time I dig into a bag of red crisps.
As a taste sensation water is not up there, but as a necessity it pretty much beats all. The sun beats down relentlessly, water sources are limited and look rather more “in case of emergency” than I would like. This has meant my journeys are limited to the 5 odd litres of freshwater I start with at each resupply.
It is enough, but it does not leave much room extravagance. It is the limiting factor to my wanderings. Day and a half. I trek out to a “furthest north” and then return setting up camp on the journey back.
I could carry more, but weight is an issue and it only extends my range and immersion marginally. Without water sources I am tied to the supply in the back of the car.
I am soon back in Princetown, return journeys always seem shorter than outward bound ones. I suppose it is the fact things have been seen, it takes less time to process, more effort is involved in forward momentum, wanting to see the next bit of new experience.
Fact is, this was solvable with a bit of effort. The fact that bit of effort was not put in told me I was comfortable with the compromise reached.
Crawling up the slope to the car, I felt out of place in an urban environment but nobody made me feel it. I notice what was initially taken for decaying pubs was the opposite. Now they had got new top coats. I had caught the pubs undressed by local painters and decorators being prepared for their new summer coats. I went past a small entrance way from which wafted the very clear smell of fish and chips. I knew what was on the agenda when I had first dropped my pack off.
The area where those wishing to “take out” was small and we were crammed together. It could not have been a pleasant experience for those around me. I had a small dog under my arm and to everyone’s credit neither me nor the dog caused anything more than smiles and the odd hello. This was a place used to the assault on the senses a hiker with dog brings.
The restaurant was very busy, at least it was for the 1 cook, the 4 staff waiting for the cook to keep pace with the orders being fired at him seemed more impatient with his failure to warp time and space to create instant food from the cookers.
Two sausage, portion of chips. One sausage was for the dog, his treat. Having existed on dried food this was a welcome break for him. The vet says the dry food is just the stuff for him, but it does have the look of “healthy” about it. A rather spartan and dull looking fayre of carefully balanced vitamins and minerals the modern dog needs. Dog 2 would be more at home eating the scraps thrown carelessly over Henry VIIIs shoulder, but he had the misfortune of being a “modern dog” on this walk.
Given he only weighs a slightly overweight 8lbs I keep a very close eye on him. When you only weigh that much, weight loss can be a rather serious thing. I can carelessly drop 5lbs and barely be any the wiser, dog2 does not have that luxury.
Back in the car we eat the sausage and chips planning the latest attempt at getting to Nun’s Cross. I now realise, the soldiers emerging from between the two pubs near the roundabout had been the key. It was there the footpath to the farm began.
In the next part of my Dartmoor stroll, I get to Nuns Cross Farm (finally).
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