Panthers, Bears & Moor! Part IV.

The dawn rains brush past, momentarily kissing silnylon. Trinnie's flanks are set perfectly; Bowstring taut and fashioned to slice through wind with barely a downstream murmur. I wake to a hushed symphony of snare drums, turn over, and sink back into my soft pillow to catch the coattails of the last dream.

RAINDROPS SLIPPING DOWN TRINNIE'S FLANKS. A DAMP START

I've been lucky in my choice of walking partners. None have been the GetUpAndGetAtEm sort. Indeed one or two have needed to be kicked awake. (Andy...) Lying in a warm, comfortable bed as the light grey slowly turns pastel until sunshine spills over the hill is a glorious start to a backpacking day.  

But there are no pastels today, nor any sunshine. During breakfast - which still makes no dent at all in my gigantic food bag - the hushed snares become rattling side drums and curtains of rain sweep down the valley. Trinnie is a commodious girl and packing in the rain is not too tricky. We emerge as the rain eases to make stowing shelters a relatively simple affair.

PEERING DOWN THE WEST OKEMENT. NOT GREAT. PICTURE SWIPED FROM ROBIN

We splosh northwards down the Okement Valley, now battered by strengthening gusts. All thoughts of a wonderful ridge walk back to the car are abandoned. It will be pretty nasty up there. We are dealing with boulders and bogs. Then more boulders and more bogs. Pelting rain and heavier pelting rain. Thankfully it's coming from behind. We come across a couple of backpackers heading towards us, straight into the weather. Brave souls.

We nip up the left hand side at Vellake Corner, open and exhilarating for a few short minutes, before heading along towards the Meldon Viaduct, crossing it crab-like in a comical fashion before falling into the railway carriage for hot drinks, pasties and monster portions of cake.

PASTIES, FOLLOWED BY COFFEE & HUGE CAKE HAPPINESS IN THE DARTMOOR RAILWAY CARRIAGE CAFE

A three mile trundle in woodland alongside the rails is followed by a delightful ramble up the sheltered East Okement River along the Tarka Trail for a while before zig-zagging up very open hillside in really horrible weather. We gain the safety of a Devon lane and splodge our way back to Belstone. Morosely, we pass a beckoning pub. Inside there are dancing girls, warming log fires, comfortable chairs and undiscovered bright golden ales. There may well be a few hours of idle happiness, padding about in our damp socks on thick-pile carpets. But no. We resolutely head onwards for the car. 

FRANKLY, I'M DISAPPOINTED ROBIN DIDN'T HAVE ONE ONBOARD.

Robin is certain that his electric mattress pump could easily power this blighter. It may need a new ultralight container. The picture doesn't show the sluicing rain and heavy, heavy gusts of wind. I just thought I would mention this.

Then it's a wonderfully smooth run back home, with Robin studiously ignoring the advice of the Sainted Sturgeon, before finally switching her off.

All in all a rather splendid trip, organised magnificently by Mr Evans. Superb work, Sir! Thank you. 

ROBIN'S SATNAV HAS NICOLA STURGEON TELLING US WHERE TO GO. THERE'S A SURPRISE.

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Panthers, Bears & Moor! Part III.

A month or so back, the good folk of Eglwyswrw, a small village in Pembrokeshire in South West Wales famous for not managing to attract more than a single vowel to its name and just about as far from civilisation that you can get, were disappointed when it didn't rain after 85 days of raining every single day. They had been hoping to beat the record held by some god-forsaken place in Scotland in 1923.

I can safely say that those poor bastards are utterly barking mad. Back in our very real and very damp world, it has rained continuously for fifteen solid hours. Not a single break. No glimmer of sunshine. Bloody ghastly. But that's the Welsh for you.

I wake just after one in the morning for a call of nature to the Sound of Silence, and soft Moonlight Shadows inside Trinnie. As I stand outside admiring the wildness all about me, I have never been more glad to see my own Moon Shadow. (Just how many title tracks can I cram into this paragraph?) When we finally get around to packing up this morning, the Mad World of the previous maelstrom is thankfully a distant memory. (Okay. That's the very last one.) Just damp socks and anoraks drying in the sunshine as momentos. 

NOT TOO SHABBY A SPOT. ROBIN ATTEMPTS TO SAW OFF THE TOE OF HIS RIGHT BOOT. NO. I DON'T KNOW WHY.

Oddly, as I hoist the bag onto my ageing frame, it doesn't feel like my spine is going to bleed; Possibly due to last night's gargantuan feast of pork pies...

LOOKING BACK DOWN TO THE INFANT RIVER NILE -  OUR SAFE HAVEN LAST NIGHT

In warming sunshine, we stroll up and out of our valley, watched silently by acidic sheep. The one on the right is Enoch.

ENOCH AND THE WATCHERS

The bogs today actually add interest to the walk. You can't go about staring at the granite tors all day; They only exist to steal your attention and mock, as you stumble blindly into another morass.

THE GUARDIAN TORS OVERSEEING THEIR PURIFYING BOGS

After Cocks Hill, we slop over to White Barrow where we engage in polite conversation with a few instructors awaiting the arrival of their Ten Tors Teams. The Moor is alive with brightly attired and wonderfully cheery youths - amazingly so, as they have just clambered up here carrying bags that 2 PARA would blanch at.

A VIEW OF WHAT'S TO COME. BUT WILL IT GO?

But we have a delightful amble down hill, cutting across the hillside and all the way down to the River Tavy.

 ZAMBEZI RIVER 

Lunch is taken on granite boulders set amongst dappled shade. It's all quite wonderful. But somewhere inside my head is that little niggling voice letting me know, somewhat spitefully, that it's all uphill from here. And in the hot sunshine. Carrying that blasted house on my back that now is no lighter at all! Better eat the heavy stuff. In the not too far away distance, I hear the familiar roar of a platoon of Hippopotami. 

AN ANCIENT LIFE-FORM AND A TREE.

To be fair, the stroll up the ridge is quite delightful with broadening views to the left and right - again, those distracting views that lure the unwary into yet more gloop.

LOOKING EAST UP THE AMICOMBE AND BLACK RIDGE BROOKS

In the sunshine, navigation's a breeze today; Just follow that ridge.

THAT WAY

WHAT YOU CANNOT SEE IS ROBIN'S HEART, THUMPING NEARLY OUT OF HIS CHEST. THE ARGIE FLAG HAS BEEN CUT DOWN.

I love this next picture. It sums Dartmoor up for me, on a good day.

ISANDLWANA. 

We have lunch, lazing in the sunshine and out of the cold wind. Socks airing on poles. Almost snoozing. In fact, if Lord Elpus had been in tow, he would declare an Official Snooze. Sadly, he is in Middleton in Teesdale ordering a Minge Cobbler. Miss Whiplash snorts her Earl Grey across the tea room.  

LOOKING BACK TO GREAT LINKS TOR,. WE STUDIOUSLY IGNORE ITS CHARMS & BYPASS IT TO COLLECT THE TRAM WAY.

We shall draw a veil over the slog up from the ruin to Kitty Tor. You need legs eight feet long to negotiate the chasms and bottomless pools with any success. But Dartmoor rewards the brave with a snap of very pretty Dartmoor Ponies. Say "Aah!" 

Thank you.

RACE HORSES PUT OUT FOR RETIREMENT, UP TO THEIR KNEES IN TUSSOCK & BOG.

A knee wrenching clamber down through tussocks and boulders to the West Okement River - delightfully docile today.

THE HEADWATERS OF THE GREAT GREY-GREEN, GREASY LIMPOPO RIVER, ALL SET ABOUT WITH FEVER TREES. 

We nip across Sandy Ford, but for the life of me I don't spot any sand. Robin points out a delightful spot large enough for a few shelters. Unilaterally, I declare that this is quite far enough for today. Robin protests, but thankfully not too strongly. I spend half an hour rigging up the electric fence to deter the predators, using Robin's Sleep Mat Inflator's Generator for a power source. You can't be too careful.

IF YOU LOOK CAREFULLY YOU CAN SEE ZULUS ALONG THE ENTIRE HORIZON. FARRZANDS OF 'EM!

To be continued...

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Panthers, Bears & Moor! Part II.

Dear Reader: In Part One of this sorry tale, I forgot to mention that the previous evening Robin played an absolute blinder! He single handedly fought off a column of German Panzer Backpackers, sending them off to a spot only known to him ~ a cleft in the moorland near a Dark, Dark Forest. My guess is that they will never be heard of again. It was only the sound of shrieking tank tracks over rocks just out of sight that alerted us to their imminent arrival. It was a close call, but we managed to stake out our towels only just in time.

This must have played on Robin's mind all night. Let's face it; Robin is essentially a decent sort, and not one to send bright, smiley youths off to their certain deaths in a ghastly dark place. Well, not too often. So, whilst I am some way off, examining the porters' magnificent plumbing arrangements, Robin goes about the place in his haz-suit, ultra-light rubbish picker & bag in hand, collecting up the remnants of the migrating orange groves and tea plantations. We muse the remainder of the morning on the year tea started to be grown in little bags; It had to be before the Dartmoor A-bomb tests.  

LOOKING BACK TO OUR CAMP SPOT FROM THE EAST DART RIVER

Moving on, because that's what you do on a circular backpacking trip, we saunter up the East Dart, to the accompaniment of Larks singing their little hearts out and the wonderful splashy sounds of a rivulet desperate to see what's around the next boulder. It is all rather lovely. 

But let's not get too carried away with this happy-clappy shit. We have a waterfall to cross. And the weather forecast supplied by my companion's Raspberry Pie is not looking good: Robin reads it out to me: "There is horrid weather coming right for you, right here, right now!" Oh great. 

And sure enough, he is bang on. In the lee of a handy boulder, we clamber into our clothing (laced with PFCs and all manner of chemicals that are sure to kill us faster than being run over by a bus) and I start in earnest on my food bag. The thing is bloody enormous; I'm sure it is actually getting bigger and heavier as time wears on. A chap can't face a boggy uphill struggle on a bleak, bleak moor, with pelting rain and bloody larks screaming at him on an empty tummy. It's just not right. And besides, lunch is a good hour or so away over a hillside of knee-wrenching tussocks.

I find my way to the bottom of a pile of Double Deckers, Kit-Kats and a wonderful bag of mixed dried berries. I then start on a large glass of water and notice frosty stares coming my way, (along with heavier gusts of cold wind and splattery rain, becoming heavier) as Robin is obviously not used to my (and Lord Elpus') slack-packing ways.

I'm sure I mutter some sort of apology, realising that the chap has been standing there, stood upright, in his waterproofs and rucsack, as I am absentmindedly staring at a map full of a whole heap of contours that we have to cross...

PICTURE SWIPED FROM ROBIN'S BLOG, SHOWING A HUNGRY, THIRSTY HIKER.

Robin sends me off across a sea of tussock in the general direction of the pub. Strangely at the mention of the P.U.B. word, my pace and performance improves remarkably. Robin is a man of hidden managerial talents.

 PICTURE SWIPED FROM ROBIN, SHOWING A HAPPY HIKER

There follows a rather torrid tramp in increasingly unpleasant weather, until we fall gratefully into the Two Bridges Hotel. My Real Turmat Goats cheese starter is a triumph. Robin's Mountain House Pate doesn't look too shabby either!

We go with the chef's "Trio of Sausages balanced precariously on a few dollops of Mashed Potato Garnished With Some Finely Chopped Veg and a Moat of Onion Gravy" suggestion. Good honest fare.

After two hours, the rain is still hammering against the windows, so we slip into pots of tea and coffee to delay the ghastliness. Eventually, we know we have to leave. It is still World War III outside, but we struggle manfully into sopping waterproofs and head out. "We may be gone sometime..."

PICTURE SWIPED FROM ROBIN'S BLOG

After dicing with death on the B3357 we turn northwards, by now swallowed in mist and rain. Visibility is down to a hundred yards, and through the tunnel of your hood. The tarmac gives way to stony track, which in turn gives way to ankle deep vibrant pools of bog, and generally gloomy places. Robin's Raspberry Pie is in a fully protected casing and the Lord Only Knows what we would do without it. It leads us unerringly over Black Dunghill (there's a name that leaves nothing to the imagination) and the sources of innumerable little rivers - Blackbrook Head springs to mind. This is the bog from hell. Well, that might just be my present take on it on a particularly rubbish day. I'm sure, beneath the summer sunshine and with views all the way to Land's End, that this is a little piece of Paradise. Just not today.

The slog finally stops and I flip Trinnie up in blustery wet winds some 1,500 feet up in the middle of God Knows Where just to the north of Great Mis Tor, amongst the ruins of what once was another pretty little moorland hamlet. The river is Bouncing and sounds like an RB211. 

WET KIT, SURPRISINGLY WELL ORGANISED

Eating my way through some pork pies & English mustard, tomato soup and cranberry flapjack in my little piece of heaven amongst the swirling hell outside, I think of my lovely comfortable bed back at home...

To be continued...

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Panthers, Bears & Moor! Part I

The morning of the day before departure, I noticed a picture on Social Meeja of Mr Evans' perfectly packed bag leaning nonchalantly against his front door. It was probably time to think about some Adventure food shopping. And so it came to pass, later that day, listening to the Nine o'clock News I start the hunt for my backpacking kit. Much later, around about the Shipping Forecast, the situation looks like this:

CLICK ON ANY OF THE PICTURES TO MAKE THEM EXTRAVAGANTLY BEAUTIFUL! HERE'S A TIP: IF YOU 'RIGHT-CLICK' ON THEM & OPEN THEM UP IN A NEW WINDOW, YOU CAN 'LEFT-CLICK' ON THEM AGAIN TO MAKE THEM BIGLY HUGE!

Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I open the front door to my perky chauffeur, stow what I think I need for five days adventuring into the back of Robin's Reliant, and slide into a blissful sleep.

We sweep majestically west-by-southwest and in the matter of a moment find ourselves placed way back in time. Stone walls, tall straggly wind-torn hedges, thatched roofs and crows dancing in the gusts overhead. A perfectly serviceable pub is bypassed and we start the 'long walk in.' We pass Alan Rayner's wheels parked outside his holiday cottage.

The Moor comes as a complete surprise as we leave the wooded dingle of the Shires. We are suddenly miles from anywhere! I have an uneasy feeling that I may actually enjoy this jaunt, despite the inevitable ghastly walking nonsense.

We avoid some suspicious sheep, marked up in cobalt blue.

Spending a while slipping into his fetish legware, Robin tip-toes daintily through a mighty river, and then we strike out across the mires. The circling curmudgeon of crows mock us, evidently not expecting to see us ever again.

The porters have been and gone, having set up the stealth shelters. As Grizzly Bears cannot see the colour brown, I select the Trailstar. Robin chooses the safety of a front door, unaware of a bear's formidable tunneling skills.

First light brings with it an eerie silence. The world is hard and sparkly white. Robin's shelter is empty. Abandoned.

After spending a dreadful night shivering in a ditch, watching the bears paw through his sleeping quarters by the light of the full moon, the poor wretch makes it back in time for the kitchen staff to rustle up a decent kedgeree. I spy a Jamie Oliver cookbook in their cupboards. A few pots of Darjeeling later and we are climbing up into the interior.

This morning I'm told our only concern is the pride of panthers resident hereabouts. I fondle the Opinel knife in my trouser pocket reassuringly and decide to stick to the ridge so I can see the blighters coming.

We arrive at the abandoned nuclear shelter atop the cheerfully named Hangingstone Hill. My guide relates a harrowing tale: Fifty years or so ago all the trees hereabouts were atomised in one blinding nuclear flash, laced with acids from Porton Down. Robin takes another radiation tablet. Just to be sure.

In this part of the Range, the sheep are marked with either red or blue litmus paint. A quick chemistry lesson for you; The red sheep are trained to roll around in the mire and if they turn blue the moor is not safe for human habitation, as the soil is now too alkaline. The blue sheep roll about testing for acidity. Turn red and it is still unsafe for human life.

Forty years ago, at the start of the test, no one remembered to record which sheep were marked red and which blue. Consequently no one is allowed out on the moor until someone comes up with a better plan. In the meantime the army is tasked with keeping herds of radioactive bears and panthers down to acceptable levels. However, no one knows how many of the creatures there were before the start of the cull or how many there are now. All the while we make bullets, shells and very big guns so the factories and the army are kept busy.

Before the nuclear tests Dartmoor was famous for its indigenous fruit farms. Unfortunately, the native pear trees had a nasty habit of wandering off and so the owner of Teignhead Farm built a huge stone wall so he could hang on to his precious pear. Sadly all that remains of the farm since the A-bomb tests is the wall and a few broken fragments of the farm buildings.

War, eh?

Robin stands forlornly on the remains of a noble clapper bridge that once held Autumnal fairs and crushed plums & cherries parties. They say the river ran a deep damson for days after.

Below, we witness the last remnants of the Corrugated Iron Age. The trees stand sentinel to its passing.

Next are two photographs of all that remains of the North Moor's Entertainment Hub; two circles of foundation stone - the last fragments of a Multiplex Cinema & Shopping Experience. It's said that at night it's possible to hear the screams of motorists lost in the one-way system.

But enough of this gloom. We arrive just as the porters leave, to find a freshly prepared encampment. Robin decides to decorate the entrance of his shelter with cloves of garlic and a sprig of Rosemary to ward off the bears, blissfully unaware that they are the bears' garnish of choice for long pig.

To be continued...

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