Plaster Down

Stuff happens around Dartmoor on a Bank Holiday weekend. It's also likely to rain - our current Summer run should start any day now and will probably extend into October.

Our particular itinerary included a visit to the Sheep Dog Trials in a field bordering Plaster Down, of which more down the page. For now, here's a few action shots. Noting, of course, that stills could never capture the real action of a sheep dog collecting his small flock with a sharp run round the field boundary.

For those unfamiliar with the pastime - you might call it a sport, but these people are all working farmers and that takes priority - for anyone not familiar, a trial involves the shepherd and dog herding the sheep through or around certain obstacles or into a pen. The first two shots above show the same essential procedure - pushing the sheep between two hurdles. The third shot shows the shepherd and dog attempting to split the five sheep into two and three.

Shepherding with dogs is often cited as an example of man working alongside nature and indeed it is. But it is also an example of man using the natural instinct - the dog as a hunter - and turning it to his advantage. On Dartmoor, the sheep are less likely to need herding as they are left to roam without any field boundaries. Those farmers who let their sheep up on the moor will, however, make regular trips out to supply herds with feed and the sheep have learnt to follow the sound of the quad bikes used to get out to them.

The picture below is a view towards Sharpitor - the distinct pimple on the left of the horizon and the end point on that ridge that is Peek Hill. What's noticeable - but not immediately so for anyone not familiar with farming practice - is that none of the fields on view contain arable crops. Dartmoor, being high up, is more suited to raising livestock - mostly cattle and sheep - and as such, fields contain grass. Many of these fields will have produced silage earlier in the year - essentially cut grass which is then stored and used for feed during winter months - which is why, in late August they look so lush. Of course, the amount of rain we've received from the middle of July onwards certainly helps.

Plaster Down was the site of a US Army Field Hospital during WWII and after the site of a Territorial Army. The site is now barren with hardly any sign of its wartime use. A close friend, told that we had been there, let out the rather astounding fact that Plaster Down was where she was conceived - during the war, courtesy of a visiting US army soldier.

Saddle Tor

A good day to get out!

The weather was more benign than hot and the sky not altogether blue, but, most importantly, the air was clear and what could be seen - pretty much anything in front of the horizon - was crisp.

Saddle Tor sits above the villages of Haytor Vale on one side and Widecomb-in-the-Moor on the other and is closely linked to the massive granite mass of Haytor Rocks. In the scheme of Dartmoor, Saddle Tor is not that spectacular, but it does present an easy target for any visitors not capable of climbing the gradient necessary to reach its more illustrious neighbour.

But right then, all the above mentioned plus point were less important than the colour of the heather. For whatever reason - climate perhaps, less ferns maybe - the western side of Dartmoor seems to generate much greater quantities of heather than the east. Of course, the ferns make up for it once Autumn arrives and the fronds turn golden, but for now, purple is perfect. The mass of rock at the top of the picture is Haytor - it isn't quite afforded the respect necessary.



The next shot shows Holwell Farm in the foreground and Clinwell and Honey Bags Tors behind.

This last one hasn't got a subject unless its the jumble of rocks up on the gentle upper slopes of Saddle Tor.

Lunch followed at the Rugglestone Inn. Real ales, gravity fed from the barrel (the best way to drink local brews), and a fine selection of lunches.

Super day.

More from Chagford

A few more shots from Chagford ...

Chagford Show

It seems that country shows, of which this was one, are an evolving breed. They started most likely as an opportunity to buy and sell livestock, perhaps show off your capabilities as a farmer or breeder, and certainly meet and greet the local country side community - including a doff of the cap to the local dignitary. But as with most things, they change over time, mostly as a result of their success - puling in crowds and thus attracting those whose interest in country affairs is peripheral at best.

Yet it's animals that are still the prime focus, even if what are shown off aren't necessarily of the working variety much less anything that might turn a profit at the abattoir.

Here's the modern version of terrier racing in which the only terrier on view decides to turn back.

As it happens, this was one of four races, this one involving 'large dogs'. The winner was the mean looking black lab on the far right of the last shot. Helpful Holidays can send the very helpful cheque any time. Now would be good.

Another evolving aspect is the gentle conversion towards commercial exhibition space. Ever a source of income for the marquee providers, exhibitors with only a neglible connection to country life will purvey their wares to a cash-strapped general public. Here's a couple of notables.

Chagford, for those with an interest, nestles on the southerly rise of the Teign Valley. It's an incorrigible hotchpotch of small shops and quaint streets, and boasts a fantastic cricket club with a two story club house, the result of a very sizable inheritance from some cricket mad rich bloke. The show takes place on the other side of the A382 on land owned by Whiddon Park House, itself overlooked by the weird majesty of Castle Drogo.

Merrivale Menhir

A menhir, to save anyone the trouble of accessing yet another site, is nothing more than a standing stone. The Merrivale example has been measured at around 3.2 metres or around ten and a half feet. Above the ground. How much is below the ground must remain conjecture, but it has to be a fair amount given the weight it has to support. The stone stands here, south of Merrivale's celebrated double stone row which, when you get close, is not as dramatic as it sounds and enjoys the indignity of being bisected down the middle by a nineteenth century leat.

And yet the flow of water has a certain pull on Dartmoor. Being basically a giant granite outcrop, water never sits far from the surface. It hides itself within the top soil and might be out of sight during a dry spell but you only need descend into a valley between the tors to find a latent stream, perhaps a bed, mostly wet. When the rains come, it rises to the surface to stand in still pools - a stage beyond puddles - or else it slips into a leat or stream and is carried away off the moor, perhaps through a tap, but eventually into the sea.

In the dips between tors, in those places without the necessary gradients to enable the downward flow, and where the granite forms a basin, the water forms into stagnant, muddy pools that turn the sediment black and which suck in the occasional boot. For some reason that is most likely not remotely ethereal let alone magical, stone rows are often associated with these black pools. Mostly they lie to one side or the other and any solemn walk along the row involves regular diversions from one side to the other.

One explanation of rows and circles is to do with the creation of electrical energy by the organised weaving of people between the stones. Something like a may pole dance. Participants, joined at the hand, weave between the stones at such a pace that their latent electricity conspires with the stones to produce something greater. Something akin to a magnetic motor perhaps. Something sufficient to enable ... what exactly. To power up a ley line?

The trouble is, what they did or didn't know three thousand or more years ago is, when viewed from this day and age, always informed and always betrayed by what we think we know now. The Beaker People didn't read Arthur Watkins. The Merrivale Menhir might work just as well as a meeting point as it does a teller of the seasons. In its favour, for those more interested in the second possibility, is that it brings with it a fine view of the horizon west of Dartmoor and there's also the possibility that it once had a standing partner that might well have given an indication of alignment.

Just what they might have aligned to is long lost however. Given that the mate is lying prostrate on the ground, there's little possibility of making a sound judgement. It might be a sunset, possibly a sunrise looking the other way, it might be a landmark but it absolutely wasn't the radio mast standing proud on North Hessary Tor.

Or neither of the above. Past a very obvious and verifiable measurement on a notable day - and taking into account any shifts in the planetary tilt - there's no evidence to speak of that can inform the modern, inquisitive mind, about what exactly the ancient people of Dartmoor had in mind when they went to the effort of dragging huge pieces of granite into position and setting them into the ground.

And in turn, that informs what the modern mind wants to achieve from their existence. For in having little or no serious evidence, the observer is free to make his or her own associations. Or, on a simple level, just be satisfied at the spectacle, perhaps become involved in the textures of hacked rock or notice the juxtaposition of stone and moor. And to note that despite all that the Goddess can do to reclaim what was hers, Dartmoor is, nevertheless, an imposed landscape that would, over the decades, revert back to a broadleaf forest amongst which any natural or unnatural alignment would be lost. Where sunrise and sunsets would be no more than splintered, refracted light glistening amongst the greenery. And where buried stones would, slowly and surely, be laid aside by the irrepresible root systems of oak and ash and beech.

For those sad enough to care, the dark splodge to the right of the stones is a camera artifact that I haven't been able to dislodge and for which I'm too lazy to paste out. And for any avid topographers, this looks past the end of the southern Merrivale Row off towards the radio mast on North Hessary Tor with part of King's Tor on the right.

Sleepy Time

For a variety of reasons, I'm putting The Leat to bed for the time being. Apologies to the few people who've enjoyed reading.

Thurlestone

A village and a rock formation, but not in one.

Today was spent performing family duties interspersed by a visit to Thurlestone beach where we found waves - for Clover - pebbles - for the camera - and an easy to follow coast path for Ros.

Here's the pebbles (with scenery attached) ...

Here's the waves (but not the ones Clover chased) ...

And this is the bole of a tree ...

For the overly enthusiastic, here's a long shot of Thurlestone - the rock not the village.

Dizzard!

It being Easter and no doubt some appointed day amongst such an amalgum, we went to the beach. But not just any beach - Crackington Haven is, for the next few months, dog free - so instead we went to Dizzard, or to be more precise, Foxhole Strand, a stretch of pebbles and shingle sitting below looming cliffs composed of angled rock strata.

Here's the view back towards the cliffs south of the strand.

Here's a similar view but with a handy pool in the foreground.

And here - cheating because the batteries died today - are the rock strata as recorded in 2008.

Another thing that separates Dizzard from Crackington Haven is that while you are unable, by law, to remove rocks and pebbles from Crackington, at Dizzard ...

Which one's you favourite?

The final attribute of Dizzard is its suitability as a swear word. And this isn't a simple thing you understand. A swear word has to be useful in a variety of literary circumstances. As a noun - you Dizzard - as a verb - I'll Dizzard you - and so on. I'll leave you the reader to find a use for it.

Ripples on Crazywell

It's certainly the case that locations are variable. Last time at Crazywell, the pool was becalmed - at least until Abby put a paw in - this time there was something more than a breeze. Let's call it a biting wind! It was Winter's Return, which is certainly good enough for a Fantasy Sequel, but not, notice, the final volume; that would have to be something hopeful and stirring.

I could go on and on given that introduction, but that's not the purpose here. We did a loopy walk yesterday - me, Ros and Clover - parking beside Devonport Leat above Burrator, following its course to climb the Cascades, before dropping down to Crazywell and from there onto the track to Norsworthy. The hardest part of the walk was the climb back to the car, but the coldest was the ascent of the Cascades.

So, given the conditions, here's Crazywell without a mirror-smooth surface. Bad for reflections, but great for textures.

A quick note on Crazywell. The pool isn't, especially in this kind of weather, a standing, stagnant bowl of water. The cutting you can see in the photo above serves as an outlet and, apart from the usual run off from the surrounding slopes, there's a definite inlet with its own little waterfall. As such, Crazywell is much like a toilet cistern but with a pretty constant inflow and outflow, and given that, it will never rise much above the level you see in the photo. It can, however, fall if there's a sustained drought.

And texture ...

There's a side bar there somewhere. I'll play with that.

Subsequent note, pictures on the sidebar seem to be restricted to a silly number of pixels, so no textured distraction - at least until I can find a work round.

A rather dour Stour

With apologies for a prolonged absence and the missing Vernal Equinox - a lack which wasn't down to laziness but bad weather, because you can't take a picture of the sunset when there's no sun.

But there's always next year and certainly the Autumn.

The sun has been missing because the weather has turned away from the fine but cold arctic flows back towards the wet but mild Atlantic systems. Not being cold is a good thing of course, but I'd take the clean crisp air and crunchy grass anyday over driving misty rain and sodden turf. But, of course, this is Dartmoor and you have to take the downs to get the considerable highs.

And in that vein, it was interesting to have an excursion eastward to the ouskirts of Bournemouth (for a family do) where I found the 'dour Stour'.

Taken from the hotel window at dawn - four pints of Ringwood Forty Niner is not condusive to late sleeping for some reason - this was just about the most vibrant picture available that morning. The next one, cropped to diminish the grey sky, was taken some four hours later from the top of the island that you can see in the first picture.

 

At this point the Stour is on an upward meander amidst its inexorable drive south east towards its destination at Christchurch Harbour. Although you can't get a sense of it from these pictures, it's an extremely fast flowing river that befits the sernse of its description as dour - obstinate, sullen.

Follow the Stour upstream, taking its eatern arm when given the choice (but not choosing the Winterbourne because that would just be pedantic), you eventually get to Hod Hill, an imposing Iron Age Hillfort that was taken by Vespasian on his passage west. After the assault, the victors, just to be sure, built their own fort; showing the locals exactly how this fortifcation thing was done.

Wet Dog

A pretty standard walk today, along the tramway to the northern slope of Leeden Tor and a beautiful clear, bubbling stream that has its own little bridge and handy bank.

Perfect for launching dogs into the water.

Jack, naturally, is the aspiring candidate and this is he, in the water, out of it, shaking it from his coat and generally just showing off.

Shades of Grey

By a certain climatary quirk, while the sky today was crystal clear - indeed blue - as the day wore on the air itself gradually condensed into a weak mist. We could still see to Kit Hill and beyond but each subsequent ridgeline was feinter than the last. Somewhere, almost certainly, there was a professional photographer doing all the necessaries to end up with that perfect cropped shot of shaded hill tops.

Not me though. Suffering from lower back pain I was only up to shuffling along the tramway while Ros and Rachel, encircled by busy dogs, strode on regardless, legs striding, mouths and tongues working hard to produce an enviable stream of chit chat. And you can't get that on camera with ease.

In two weeks time or there abouts, it'll be March 20th - the Spring Equinox - and the next installment of our Down Tor Stone Row fascination. Just to recap, we found out that the row was Not a Winter Alignment. Not even close. So the next obvious appointment with the ancients would therefore be when the year was a quarter of the way through.

I have to say I've got some doubts, but you never know, we might end up with an Indiana Jones moment as the westering sun glints its way through the secret stone hole to alight a single beam on a singular pinpoint of rock that opens into a dank passageway ....

Of course, the chances are that it'll be wet with mist and the sun will be conspicuously absent. That never happens in the films does it, but then every one of those special moments takes place in a warm climate in the Summer. By definition, that can't happen here. The countdown continues.

Postscript. By virtue of another quirk, this one concerned with nomenclature, a row of new housing in the village has been named 'The Leat'. Naturally I'll be contacting my solicitor forthwith.

Skirting Pew Tor

The weather's turned mild now, a welcome change from the chill air that has been camped across Dartmoor for the last couple of months and a certain sense of warmth enthused us as we took Clover and Jack on an hourlong jaunt around Pew Tor.

Parking the noddy car close to Oakley Cottage, we crossed the leat and followed it roughly before edging towards Feather Tor and then down somewhat in the direction of Vixen Tor. A right turn - more of a sedate course amendment - soon had us walking alongside a dry stone wall along the designated footpath (green dashes on the map) and then another right and we went back almost over Pew Tor and back down.

Vixen Tor, an unapproachable landmark because the owner doesn't want to be made liable for anyone falling off.

A view up to Heckwood Tor ...

I spent a good few seconds lining up the next shot only for Jack to come charging back along the path and jump straight into both puddles. Another minute or so was spent waiting for the water to calm down again.

Here's a busy shot.

Finally a view across to Brentor, looking like a virulent pimple on the skyline. If you open it up in a photo editor and zoom in, you can see the church.

The Tramway

The tramway under consideration runs from Dousland to Princetown via the Swelltor and Foggintor quarries. But let's put all of that into the past tense because tramway and quarries are no longer functioning; the former now acting as a sure-foot path all the way to Princetown and the latter existing as a collection of close-cut gorges and pools.

Today we limited ourselves to the stretch between Gypsy Rock and Ingra Tor. On the way back we met Graham the farmer. We think his eyebrows could generate electricity, but ordinarily we're just happy to listen to the man because he's one of those fountains of local lore.

Here we go ...

This is a view out towards Kit Hill, the various layers starting with the land descending into the Walkhampton Valley, then the rise that is Sampford Spiney, followed a partial view of Plaster Down, after which stuff generally gets less discernible.

Next we've got a slightly different direction with a view of five Tors. On the skyline, from left to right, are Cox Tor, Middle Staple Tor, Great Staple Tor and Roos Tor. Below the skyline, rising up from the western slope of the Walkham Valley is Vixen Tor.

Lastly, and continuing the general fascination with the sky and the clouds and all that ....

And finally ...

North Tawton

A mini adventure that was partly successful, a mite intriguing, but utlimately deserving of greater effort.

First things first, Clover and I couldn't actually get to the Roman Fort at North Tawton. If I'd been on my own, I'd have probably climbed over the barbed wire fence that wasn't supposed to be there, but seeing as Clover was with me, I decided agaist it. The unanticipated fence was found as an extension of the tree-lined bank that lies along the same north south direction as the eastern ditch of the fort as seen on the OS map. You can see that tree line on Google Maps here.

Despite not getting into the relevent field, there are some interesting observations. Firstly there is a distinct series of old trees that marks the line of the Roman Road as it approaches the fort and the river crossong below it. You can see an impression of that line in the following photo ...

The afore-mentioned tree-lined north-south boundary lies perpendicular to the road and - the intriguing part - incorproates a distinct ditch suggesting a possible outer defensive work facing east. Here's the ditch ...

As you can see - if you look carefully - the bank that marks the field boundary is distinctly higher than the ground to the east of the ditch (we're looking north here). If this is in fact an outer defensive work, then the general line of it dates back two thousand years or so, just as the line of the fort proper follows the same line. If you now go back to the OS map view, and follow the course of the road eastwards, you'll see a different set of field boundaries following a different line (some cross the railway line, some don't), until you get to where the road is labelled - Roman Road (course of) - at which point the boundaries again become perpendicular and match up with what is now a track that emanates from the 'yellow' road labelled Itton Moor. Notice also that the 'yellow' road follows the same direction as the Roman Road for a short stretch.

All of which suggests a very old set of field boundaries that merits the attention of a man with a dog.

A few more mouse drags eastward and the course of the Roman Road disappears. However, if you imagine that line continuing, you'll see it (perhaps) re-appearing as the odd field boundary running east-west and then, along roughly the same line, you end up at Keymelford where there's a crossing of the River Yeo. Once across the Yeo, it's feasible that the Roman Road coincides with the modern road as it passes Brandise Cross and Gunstone Cross, both road junctions.

More to do then ...

Trees above Deancombe

Just a quicky I'm afraid ...

I also took some mossy stone pictures that I'll try and stitch together. If only I had a wide angle lens.

A line along the Taw

The Taw is a North Devon river that runs from the centre of Dartmoor down east of Okehampton and then winds its way north up to Barnstaple where it enters an estuary that is also attached to the Okement River. Both rivers start their course from a boggy morasse in the centre of Dartmoor that's easier to call Cranmer Pool than anything else. In fact, there's less than a half a mile between the two river 'heads' and, within the space of perhaps two square miles, you can find the sources of four principle rivers, the others being the East Dart and the Teign.

But that's mostly incidental; the Taw is of concern because it positions a Roman fort and also - because this isn't just interesting, but might be related - it traces a collection of Grove-related placenames that certainly have a Brittonic (Celtic for those who have a preference) root, but are also composed of Germanic elements with the same meaning. The British element is Nymet, incorporating the Latinised Nemeton, and the Germanic element is Beer, Bear or Beere.

The fort in question is sited just south of North Tawton along the line of the Roman road from Exeter - at that point now the A3072, which spurs off the current A377 but was, at the time, the same road. Other forts are at Bury Barton and Okehampton. The North Tawton fort is actually one of perhaps two or three that, at different times, evidently defended a good crossing point of the Taw.

Current thinking has it that the forts date to the immediate post-conquest phase of Roman Britain - immediate meaning a few decade after - at a time when the 2nd Legion under Vespasian was consolidating its hold on the south west peninsular, in the process subduing the Dumnonii tribe. However, if that was exclusively the case, then the forts would have probably existed for just a finite time. That the Roman Road survives and that it crosses the Taw at pretty much the same point as it did two thousand years ago, makes a good case that the forts were in existence longer and that they, or what they generated in the local surrounds, was still active well after Britain was removed from the Empire.

So, because I'm a boring bugger who's got an interest in all of this, I'm establishing a project of sorts to visit the forts, hopefully trace the Nymet-related places and generally make a nuisance of myself for a time. Most likely I'll do this on my own - I don't doubt that even Gloria, the invented Witch of Sheepstor, would be bored rigid by such a venture ...