I must have really wanted to come to Okehampton, because it took three trains. One was cancelled; a serious annoyance for Castle Cary, which had me clattering around its streets with a suitcase for half the afternoon. In hindsight, the trip here was a gamble: the probability of three British trains all running as promised is not high.
The way from Okehampton up to Dartmoor's edge is steep and uninteresting, so I found the town's taxi rank, where the second driver asked agreed to make the trip. The first mulled the prospect over and decided against it. Okehampton's taxi drivers, who are all over seventy, gather at the rank to stare at the sky and await a fare that stirs their soul. A quest, a heist, one big fare they can retire on. You have to pitch your trip. "I'm rightful heir to the earldom and seek proofs of my claim in the grocery store on Fore Street."
It was a day of mist and rain well-suited to moor-walking. On a clear day, you would experience none of Dartmoor's damp mystery. Spectral hounds, moor-beasts, druids, ancient kings restless under toppled cairns, ghosts that moan in the bracken, none of these are going to pop up when it's sunny and caper about like Disney characters.
A zig-zag walk up a bracken-covered hill and a lot of frowning over a GPS app took me to a paved road, then a gravel farm road, gravel paths, mown strips, and into open country. The soft mist became light rain, and a wind whipped up to drive it sideways. Sheep grazed half-hidden in grass and bracken or lay in the shelter of low trees, watching the world with that calm acceptance that is the great compensation of having a brain like a cherry tomato.
The moor is yellow, green, and hummocky, with hillsides covered in ferns and tall grass, lonely trees, and jumbles of granite blocks. Here and there it's pinched up into tors, modest peaks with screaming winds. On a rainy day in early fall, you get soaked, frozen, and disoriented. Many of the legends arose from half-drowned hikers glimpsing each other through the mist. "It was definitely a barrow wight. It had cold, hopeless eyes, and the blowing of its nose was like the horn of a fell huntsman summoning the hounds of hell." Is someone excitedly telling a new story at a local pub? I'm hopeful, but don't expect to make it into the mythos. It would be hard to evolve a harrowing backstory that explains the toque and the peanut-eating.
I found a stone circle, climbed a tor, and got possibly wetter than anyone has ever been before. I saw no one, though once there was a blue tent in the distance, and cars were parked where the road ended. A man was climbing out of a van, and I was going to wittily observe that it was a nice day, but he shouted it out before I got a chance.
To add spice to Dartmoor, the southern edge has a military base where artillery testing is conducted. There are poles topped with warning lights along the road and signs advising against playing with unexploded ordnance. Not getting blown up here was one of my goals. If you're going to get killed on a moor, you should do it in a way consonant with the spirit of the place, like following dancing lights into a mire or getting murdered in some fiendishly mysterious way.
This first hike was such a success I did it again the next day. A taxi took me to Malden reservoir and I crossed the dam and followed a soggy trail around the water and up into a field where cows lay with their calves wondering if it was worth their while coming over to kick me. The path was becoming a river, so I decided to climb the ridge, hoping for dryer ground, and meet the trail where it doubled back.
That worked out as I deserved. The entire slope ran with water. There were fast-flowing streams audible underfoot but invisible in the tall grass. You can only lurch from one dubious knot of vegetation to another, grabbing a fistful of grass when something gives way. It was a splendid time. When I came to a block of granite I would stand on it for a while just to savour the footing. And when I finally struck the path, I forgave it immediately for the ponds it held in low places. Don't take random shortcuts on the moor: another well-known principle I preferred to work out for myself. Should the worst happen on my next moor hike, I'd like my estate to be used to erect a monument to people who have been sucked into bogs. Tell the sculptor to make it gruesome.
Back at the reservoir, the hiking scene was picking up. Several people were defying the signs by walking unleashed dogs, as is customary, and a friendly Labrador escorted me back across the dam. Out on the road, I made way for a dozen horseback riders, most of whom followed the lead rider in turning to thank me as they passed. No trouble, hello, happy to, cool horse, you're welcome -- you know, your spokeswoman and I really covered all this earlier?
Google Maps sent me on a deeply unpleasant and rather dangerous road walk back to town. Jumping up into the brush when a car approached, flattening against hedges at blind corners, crossing back and forth to whichever side seemed less deadly -- my curse on the whole stretch of the B3260 between Okehampton and the Malden reservoir parking lot, except the bit closest to town, which was acceptable. After a day of mud and poor decisions, you restore yourself by degrees: showering, setting clothes out to dry, eating a packaged meal from Waitrose and some cookies -- each is a stage on the way back to civilization.
