This was The Chains made easy. No range of hills on Exmoor has such an evil reputation as The Chains, the name itself as threatening as the lowering tops themselves. Even the staghunters, who are sometimes led across them in winter on a soaking, foggy day from a meet at Scob Hill, speak of them in awed tones. On a bright July morning, however, they were just pussycats, and a little skipping from tussock to tussock in the odd place or two was the worst the going had on offer, even after three inches of rain in recent days. Coming from Simonsbath, passing the concrete road to Acklands Farm on the left, just round the bend we parked in the big lay-by on the right. The bridleway which leads up on to the Chains starts at the near end. The climb is a nice, steady one but, after passing through two gates and with a mass of moor in front of you, you need to be careful to spot the shrivelled posts which mark the way. These will lead you safely up to the path which crosses the Chains from east to west. Behind you there is a wonderful view over the western moor to the sea.
If you go straight onwards thence, you will reach the Chains Barrow. We turned left and headed for Pinkery Pond. This is a desolate spot, and the source of the River Barle. No wonder that there have been two recorded suicides here. Just remember, if you fancy ending it all here, that the water is so black with peat that the divers will be unable to find you. The pond will have to be drained to recover your corpse, an inconvenience to all. The rather grubby buoy which I remembered from a visit thirty years previously is still there. What possible use might it have? One could hardly imagine some jolly little boat moored to it, in which one might scull to and fro over the evil waters.
Leaving Pinkery behind, you soon reach the track which runs from north to south at Woodbarrow Gate. Nearby we found the bog asphodel, a plant much more attractive than its name.
If you clamber round the flooded gateway, you are rewarded from the top of the tumulus with views of the sea both in front and behind. We renegotiated the gateway, and began the long descent back to the road. On our left was the huge wind turbine of the Pinkery Centre for Outdoor Education, itself concealed by a large plantation so that it doesn’t have to see or hear the monstrosity on its doorstep.
Challacombe is curious in that no footpaths lead into the village from this side. There was a little walker symbol on one gateway but no signpost to back it up, and there are no rights of way marked on the map. You are obliged to cross the main road and take the track towards the Mole’s Chamber. You will see a tree line above you and, when you reach it, there is the remnant of a signpost which, no doubt, at one time directed you to your right to Challacombe across South Regis Common. We turned here and, as you approach Challacombe, the track becomes more and more obvious until it becomes a hard farm lane. By some farm buildings you are obliged to turn right and then sharp left, and the bridleway enters the village by a narrow packhorse bridge over a crystal, rushing stream. We turned right and, keeping to our right at the ford, reached the road opposite to the “Black Venus”.
The origin of its splendidly non-pc name is simply a breed of local sheep. Forty years ago it was known more prosaically as the “Ring O’Bells”. The pub is a long, low whitewashed building with the windows and sills picked out in black. You bump up against the varnished bar as you sail through the front door. There are tables and chairs right and left here for drinkers, and away to your right most of the pub is given over to a spacious eating area. The room is heavily timbered with original beams, and through to the left is a games room with a good darts board and a pool table. There were three proper beers – the Quantock Brewery’s White Hind, Cotleigh’s Golden Seahawk, and Cousin Jack.
Always ready for new thrills, we ordered the White Hind. I regret that I have no way of knowing the merits, or demerits, of this particular brew. The beer was served at a temperature better appreciated in the Australian outback than in deepest Devon. We sat staring at our glasses, fogged and trickling with condensation, as if characters in that legendary war film, “Ice Cold In Challacombe.” Someone of whom I have very fond drinking memories, the late Colonel Royston “Blotto” Boulter of the Penguin Bar, Praia da Rocha, decreed that all beer, even Portuguese piss, should be served “chambré”. I sympathise with him, although I would prefer to say “cellar temperature.” What did White Hind taste of? I have no idea. We moved on to Golden Seahawk for our next pint and, by the time I was finishing it, it had thawed sufficiently into a respectable beer of the pale, lemony variety. Perhaps the cooling equipment in the cellar was having a brainstorm. I can’t believe that this was the norm in a pub which enjoys a considerable reputation.
Three blackboards list the food and wine. One fresh fish option was marlin, something which I had thought once was only caught by Hemingway characters off Cuba. So-called global warming clearly has brought the game fisher’s fish of choice closer to home. More conventional choices included a tempting mixed grill which featured the pub’s homemade sausages. Prices are on a par with the nearby Exmoor Forest Inn. It was a Sunday morning, and one couple didn’t pause even to look left or right as they came through the door. “Two roast beefs,” they said without more ado, and at £7 each I am sure that they were right.
We retraced our steps up South Regis Common. The sign by the little bridge in Challacombe pointed to both the Mole’s Chamber and to Woodbarrow, confirming that this was the only way out of the village heading east. We swung right up over the hills to reach the Mole’s Chamber. You will know when you have reached this eerie sounding spot because it is adjacent to a lane which connects Kinsford Gate with Five Cross Way. Don’t expect, however, a man selling tickets, or the entrance to some fascinating cavern or grotto. The Mole’s Chamber is a bog, nothing more and nothing less, and is much like any other bog on the moor.
There is an almost illegible memorial stone to a Lord Of The Manor of nearby High Bray.
There are several stories about its name, all concerning a Farmer Mole. He perished in it, variously, by riding into it when returning from market, (no doubt worse for wear,) when hunting, or when rather recklessly attempting to prove that it wasn’t dangerous. A less romantic, and no more convincing, theory is that the name relates to the River Mole, (the stream there flows the wrong way, northwards towards the Barle.) No matter, the Mole’s Chamber is a delightful spot on a sunny day, with a fine view down Great Vintcombe with its sinuous line of beech trees and clattering stream.
The path follows it down the valley and in no time you are back at the Acklands drive.
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