Wandering on Dartmoor

Fenworthy forest opens out onto an expanse of high moorland, that only gets higher. I was surprised that the paths through the moor seemed relatively well defined - I had expected to need to switch from my open sided water-shoes to solid hiking shoes to protect against ticks in the long grass. First port of call was Sittaford tor, I came up the leeward slope but once I reached the 538meter peak, the wind was brisk, penetrating and threatened to carry off loose gear.

Having covered about 20Km today, and being 20Km from the end of my walk, with most of the afternoon ahead I decided to see if I could push the pace. If I could get the last 20Km done in between 3.5 and 4.5 hours, I could make one of the last two train journeys of the day. Unladen that would be no problem, but with a hefty 15Kg on my back (still a few Kgs more than I really should be carrying on a hike, even after consuming a couple of days food and fuel) it would be a challenge. I had seen someone (presumably a marine) running with a substantial looking pack on a steep section of moor back on Saturday, but I imagine it’s something that you need to work up to (and that racks up a lot of mileage on the joints and hips).

With no time to lose I pushed on and entered the MOD’s Okehampton training range at a 550meter peak named Quintin’s man. These high moors were a sharp contrast to the first part of the day. Whilst as beautiful and undulating as any other part of Dartmoor, the training area’s peaks and valleys were transposed about 150meters higher vs the morning’s walk. The moor is exposed, lacking any trees, the main sound is of wind, rushing over the ground and harping in the straps of my bag. Hardly any animals are around - the song birds of the morning replaced by birds of prey, floating silent and aloof on the winds; being a military range I saw few grazing animals, I like to think the few there are have escaped their farms and are hiding out up here - taking their chances with military firing.

Heading north west I reached Whitehorse hill, then followed a peat pass to hanging stone hill - at 603 meters the high point of my trip (strictly in the literal sense). Going down hill sounds like it should be easier, but with loose stones underfoot and a heavy pack progressing down (at least without wrecking my knees) seemed almost as challenging as climbing up. Making careful use of walking poles I dipped down into my last deep valley, then walked along the shoulders of High Willhays and Westmill tor. The track drops slowly at first from a stone clad ‘pillbox’ bunker directly east of Yes tor, before diving more steeply down to the relatively flat area in front of Okehampton camp.

I arrived at the Royal Marines’ Okehampton camp at 18:30, almost exactly three hours since I entered the range. I expected the camp to be fairly deserted at this time on a bank holiday Monday, but the Cornish Army Cadet Force were holding an event there; in a far corner of the camp a large group were being paraded, presumably for the end of event briefing. The Cornish Army Cadets wear the badge of The Rifles regiment; one building was festooned with Rifles banners - I couldn’t help wondering what the Marines would make of that if they saw it.

With an hour in hand before the last train home I didn’t have push the pace on this last short, steep section from the camp down to the railway station. The trail plunges down through gorse bushes and the a small deciduous wood - the soundscape is the roar of the A30 one of the two major trunk roads into Cornwall. I found myself reflecting that noise pollution is something we become enured to as a society - not that long ago morning deliveries had to be made by silent electric floats or on foot to avoid breaking the taboo around morning noise, now it is accepted as inevitable.

The wood ends at the national park boundary, and a short slalom of roads descend to the upper part of Okehampton. I arrived at Okehampton station with about half an our in hand before the last train. I pulled on a few items of clean clothing and switched my dusty open sided water shoes for walking shoes and socks. I set my pack down on a bench and then looked around as far as my sore and stiffening limbs would allow.

The station is like a time capsule, presented in the liveries of the South Western railway; it is much as it would have looked 100 years ago, complete with 1920s art deco posters advertising destination stations that closed over 50 years ago. It owes this preservation to a charitable organisation that ran a museum here for the many years Okehampton was closed for regular rail services, which only recently resumed. National rail trains arrive and depart from Platform 3; platforms 1 and 2 house the station museum and are set up as if to run a separate heritage railway down the remaining stretch of line (though as far as I can tell none actually runs).

All that remained was a few hour’s rail journey back home. I binned the litter I had picked up on the moor at Exeter St David’s station, where I connected to a train directly home. I watched the sunset from the train window, before hobbling the last few kilometres home from the station.Baca lagi