Hello and welcome to the Dartmoor Way with me Liz Scott.
I hope you listen and enjoy my 110 mile journey around the outskirts of Dartmoor National Park in Devon in the UK.
In August 2023 I completed this walk with my sister and following it I wrote a series of letters to her sharing my memories and experiences.
This is day 2,
Saturday August 5th when we walked 10.
5 miles from Shipley Bridge to Ashburton.
Dear Sister,
We started our second day of walking from Shipley Bridge as Storm Antonio ripped across Devon.
The first part of the day as we walked beside the Avon River was tame.
We were sheltered in the valley.
But when we climbed up onto the open moor by the Avon Dam,
The fine rain hurled itself across our path in curtains and we were exposed to the storm's full fury.
The one saving grace as the wind ripped around us was that we were on open moorland.
There were no trees to fall on us.
We were also lucky that the wind was pushing us along.
Antonio was furious and wild.
Gusts of wind raged across the lake of the reservoir creating a mini ocean of tetchy white horses.
With each step I took,
There was no doubt of who was in charge.
This was a reminder of the absolute power of nature.
Talking was impossible.
Our words were shouted and snatched into the air like leaves.
We bowed our heads and felt a surge of gratitude that the storm was on our backs and not in our faces.
The moorland was running with water.
New streams and bogs were emerging.
This was creation in action.
I was grateful for wearing my Wellington boots.
My feet would have been soaked in trainers.
In the midst of this storm,
I realized my smallness.
I was a tiny creature,
Traversing time and space,
Exposed and vulnerable.
I realized I was not in charge.
In this realization,
A surge of joy erupted within.
If I was not in charge,
Then I was not responsible,
And the knowledge of this,
That I was not responsible,
Was freedom.
I stretched out my arms and invited the wind to pommel me up the path,
To reach beneath me and lift me off the ground.
When I looked behind,
I could see you wrapped in your rain poncho,
Windswept and wet.
I wondered how you were experiencing the moors.
Were you feeling exhilarated or feeling pommeled?
Once off the moor,
We trailed across fields,
Startled a buzzard,
And watched black crows battle against the wind.
They were like swimmers against an incoming tide,
And stayed stationary in midair,
Unable to move forward.
I started to notice the fields,
Closed in by fences and barbed wire.
The difference from the expansive moor to the straight-lined fields was as noticeable as a difference between dancing in free-flowing silks or being trussed into a corset.
We crossed streams and traipsed up through tracks with tall trees and heaving leaves That howled like an express train whizzing through a station.
I don't know about you,
Rachel,
But I eyed the hedges warily.
I knew we were vulnerable to branches and falling trees.
We descended through lanes,
And as we made our way into civilization,
The wind seemed to drop,
And my wellington boots felt heavy and hot.
When we got to Buckfastlea,
The earlier experience of the wild moor seemed a distant memory.
This small town,
With its narrow streets and tiny shops,
Was semi-rural and quiet.
We walked through the town,
And the path pointed us up steep stone steps,
Up,
Up,
Up to the old church at the top of the hill.
It felt like a long slog,
But we both wanted to go.
This was the shell of a church,
And it had a strange beauty.
Many,
Many years ago,
A fire had ravaged it and left it as a ruin.
The churchyard had long grasses covering the graves.
The church spire itself still stood true.
But as we walked inside the church,
Past the keep-out sign,
We found ourselves amongst ruins.
Gates that had once stood proud were now decaying and faded.
Weeds grew up through tight paving stones.
The old floor of the ruined church was adorned with flowers,
And the sky was its ceiling.
We sat for a while amongst the ruins of this once-proud church,
And then we made our way down Fairy Hill.
What a strange name,
Fairy Hill,
And we passed a recently fallen tree,
And then we stopped for a coffee at the new Buckfastleaf Farm Shop.
The last part of our journey was to get to Ashburton.
Do you remember that footpath?
It was a narrow path that had been drowned by long grasses,
Wild and straggly weeds.
It was a struggle to make our way through the brambles and ferns that had swollen out and spilt onto the narrow track.
I wonder if anyone other than us had ever actually used this path.
It seemed so unused.
I was grateful again for my Wellington boots.
They protected my ankles from scratches and stinging nettles.
At last we made it off the path,
And breathed a sigh of relief to get onto a tarmac road again.
As we found our way through the final lanes to Ashburton,
I was left reflecting on man's endless quest to tame nature.
My hunch is that we will ultimately fail.
Like a tiger in a zoo,
Nature appears submissive and docile.
But she bides her time.
Soon enough she will bare her teeth or impatiently flick a tail or stretch her claws.
Today,
With the storm,
She had reminded me of her power.
The ruined church and the footpath drowning in the undergrowth was a reminder of nature once again reclaiming what was hers.
I was relieved.
One day,
This tiger will pounce out and escape her cage and will take charge again.
I'm not sure she will spare mankind after the hurt and grief inflicted upon her.
But nature will reclaim her lands,
Untie the shackles,
And allow the unrestricted dance of her creation to be freed once again.
