Exmoor Pubs & Walks

Seven and a Half Mile Walk at Brendon Hill & the Raleigh’s Cross Inn

2010-10-26T08:34:00.000-07:00

This was more of a ramble than a walk as we wandered about Brendon Hill, in pursuit variously of the Clatworthy Lake, the source of the River Tone, and the remains of the Raleigh’s Cross iron ore mine. Our quest to visit every pub on the Moor is nearing its end, and taking us to the very boundaries of the Exmoor National Park. Indeed, after parking our truck just down the road from the Raleigh’s Cross Inn, we walked into the track at the side of the pub towards Tripp Farm and out of the Park. The B3190 road here is the Park’s southern boundary. Raleigh’s Cross takes its name from the Rale(i)gh family of nearby Nettlecombe Court which included the well-known tobacco industry lobbyist. The metalled track took us away between the fields with far-reaching views over the hills towards Dartmoor.

Eventually, where the track turned left-handed towards the farm, we turned right through a gate into the fields and headed down towards the Stolford Woods. Sadly the contours of the hills and valleys denied us even a glimpse of the elusive Clatworthy Lake. If earlier we had turned to our left off the farm drive, we could have made a clockwise loop around Tripp Farm which would have brought us to the shore of the lake, but we would have missed what happened next. We kept to the left boundary and soon a hunting gate took us down a path into the trees. On a beautifully sunny autumn morning, after a hard frost, the beeches and sweet chestnuts were at their best. At the foot of the wood, we forded the River Tone, thankfully still no more than a stream. Fifty years ago this month it turned most of the county town of Taunton into a Somerset version of Venice. The bridleway began to climb again and soon we came to a farm where nothing stirred. In a neglected range of wooden loose boxes, resting on a half-door, an abandoned saddle was mouldering away. In the middle of the track lay a tan and white collie. I approach all dogs with caution on the reasonable assumption that, if it isn’t ready to savage intruders, there’s not much point in keeping it. The collie, curled in the warmth of the October sun, slept on, snoring gently as we passed it by.
As soon as you leave the National Park, the signing of rights of way becomes somewhat random. We failed to hit Syndercombe Lane in the exact spot, but a turn to the right quickly corrected matters. Then the bridleway to Beverton Pond, source of the Tone, somehow disappeared into thin air, but a muddy lane took us past a radio station to the main road, and a quick hike up it put us right again. Here lay the birth of that mighty waterway which gives the Clerk of the Course of Taunton Racecourse so many sleepless nights during the winter. First it feeds the stubbornly invisible Clatworthy Lake.Leaving Beverton Pond on our left, a track took us away through magnificent avenues of beeches in search of the Naked Boy’s Stone. Again we wandered off the path as shown on the map, but we reached the lane between Sminhays Cottages, the only surviving buildings of the nineteenth century village which housed some two hundred mine workers, and the Naked Boy’s Stone. There seems no reasonable explanation for the monument’s name, but it is obviously an ancient standing stone and coincidentally a boundary marker. Just past the stone a hump in the lane indicates that it is crossing the old railway which once served the mines. Here, at Naked Boy’s Bridge, we climbed over a stile on to the disused track way and walked westwards to the remains of the Burrow Farm Engine. This impressive ruin once housed a “Cornish Engine” to pump the water from the adjacent iron ore mine. This kind of engine, popular in mines of all kinds of the day, was probably more successful than the mine, which had an even shorter life than most Exmoor mining ventures. We walked back to Naked Boy’s Bridge and then scrambled down the other side under the barbed wire so that we could walk back to the site of the old Brendon Hill Station. Its location is plain enough, a wide expanse where once there would have been sidings and platforms, but a house and its boundary prevented us from reaching the road. We skirted it easily enough and, as we walked back towards Raleigh’s Cross, we passed the Beulah Chapel. The chapel, and a Church Of England tin tabernacle which once stood next to the old railway line, was built for the benefit of the miners. (The Chapel holds a service each Sunday to this day.) These guardians of Temperance were in direct competition for the allegiance of the miners, of course, with the inn at Raleigh’s Cross. Miners can be thirsty chaps, and my family’s fortunes, such as they are, were founded partly on running a pub and a small brewery in a North Somerset pit village. I quickened my step in sympathy, therefore, past the chapel and towards the pub, with marvellous views to our left over the Bristol Channel towards Wales. Raleigh’s Cross Inn says the sign. My wife reckoned that it was more of a “road house”, but that conjures up images of places on the Kingston Bypass in the 1930’s, full of characters from Peter Cheyney novels drinking cocktails with nightclub hostesses before returning to the Bentley or the Alvis in the gravelled car-park. To me it was a caff, a nosher, which also sold beer.

We fully realise, however, that, without another chimney pot in sight, no other business plan for the pub will do. We had two so-so pints of Cotleigh Tawney. Exmoor Ale also was on offer. I didn’t take the trouble to take notes on what food was available as you really could have just about anything. There was a carvery four days a week rather than just on Sundays as at most pubs in the area. I did note with satisfaction that on Wednesdays “seniors” received a free pudding. And what puddings! – blackberry and apple, rhubarb and ginger… in a schoolboy reverie I could see the thick, yellow waves of custard lapping at the edge of the crumble. Don’t miss the extensive collection of photographs of the mines and their railways in a corridor off the main room.
A new driveway and car park has been constructed off the road between the chapel and the pub for visitors to the “Incline”. A 1 in 4 gradient lay between Brendon Hill and Comberrow on the railway line to the coast at Watchet, and the Incline was an arrangement of two parallel tracks. Using a cable system, empty trucks were drawn up one while loaded ones were lowered down the other. Passengers who reached Comberrow from the coast in conventional rolling stock were permitted to ride for free in the empty trucks to Brendon Hill at their own risk. We walked down a new forest roadway through pines of a more than Teutonic gloom until we joined a narrow, wilder path which took us to the Incline. Even seen today, with the rails long gone and the banks of the cutting softened by nature, it is an awe-inspiring sight. Sadly, our photo makes it look absolutely level!

We climbed the Incline back to the top. Here still stand the ruins of the Winding House, which held the massive drums on which the cables were wound. From the road you can see how the track from the Incline to Brendon Hill Station ran right over the top of the Winding House. We walked past the Chapel again and back to the new car park to recover the truck. The time had come to find Clatworthy Lake at last. To reverse the usual order favoured by TV chefs, here’s something we prepared later.

Circular Eleven Mile Walk from Trentishoe Down to the Pack Of Cards at Combe Martin

2010-10-20T01:40:00.000-07:00

This is not a walk for the faint-hearted, either the literal or the metaphorical kind. Although the outward journey is entirely on the coastal path, it has its downs and ups, from near a thousand feet to five hundred, back to a thousand feet, and then down to sea level. Then you do it all over again on the way home. Your reward is some stunning coastal scenery and a visit to one of the quirkiest pub buildings in the country.
We had set out a week earlier but had been forced to abort our mission when we couldn’t see in front of our faces because of dense fog and drizzle. Our intention had been to park on Trentishoe Down near the Glass Box, a bungalow with distinctive panoramic windows but, even though the house is only a few yards from the road, we never saw it.

Our patience was rewarded with a beautifully sunny autumn day with the air coming from the north, which made for spectacular views over the cliffs and the Bristol Channel. There is no problem finding your way on the coastal path. It is very clearly signed. Climbing down and up the sides of Sherrycombe, however, is a different matter.

The path has none of the zigzags of an alpine pass. It just goes straight down and straight up again. In places you might feel that it would be better to sit down on your bottom and toboggan down. Old and decrepit as we are, we crept with tiny sideways steps down the worst bits. We took a picture of the footbridge at the bottom as an excuse for a pause before tackling the other side. On the descent you tend to say, “I always think it’s worse going down a slope like this than climbing it.” On the ascent you tend to say nothing quite so silly as you are saving your breath to climb the wretched thing. Slowly but surely the path evened out and we reached the summit of Great Hangman, graced by a cairn of near Freudian proportions. Someone called Mike had borrowed some of the stones to trace his name in the grass. Well, he had climbed a thousand feet for the pleasure. The views, not surprisingly are stunning, both east, and then west towards Little Hangman, a grassy knoll on the edge of Combe Martin Bay. Lundy Island was a hazy presence on the horizon. Little Hangman is obviously a popular walk for Combe Martin visitors. There were plenty of people and their dogs climbing it from the footpath out of the village, but very few afterwards pressed on to Great Hangman. The call of Sunday lunch was too strong. From Little Hangman there are grand views across the bay. We ignored the siren call of footpaths leading directly into Combe Martin and clung to the coastal path. The path itself is not particularly rewarding – a graffiti plastered wooden pavilion was obviously popular with the local youth for one purpose or another – but it did deliver us into the village right by the beach. Combe Martin is a delightful spot, and on a warm, sunny day you could almost imagine swimming here - almost. Trapped between the sides of the combe, the village has one long street. Half way along it stands the Pack Of Cards. As one local assured us, “You can’t mistake it,” and you can’t. It was built in 1690 by George Ley to commemorate a major win at the card table. The original building had four floors to represent the four suits in the pack, thirteen rooms for each card in a suit, and fifty two windows and fifty two stairs, all on an area fifty two feet square. It has been extended since. By the early 1800’s it was no longer a private house but an inn called the “King’s Arms. In 1933 the pub officially adopted its colloquial name of “The Pack Of Cards”. The bar has a comfortable lived-in look with some pleasant wood panelling and furniture. One of the two columns which support a moulded ceiling grows out of the middle of a table. There were complimentary dishes of crisps, nuts and cubes of cheese on the counter, and a “Have you enjoyed your walk” from the lady behind the bar. We had two good pints of Courage Directors, not exactly an artisan brew but one worth drinking when you find it on draught. The alternative was Sharp’s Doom Bar. The pub does all the usual baguettes and jacket potatoes at the usual price as well as a Sunday roast.
We crossed the road and by the post office took a lane upwards through the village. Where the houses ended, we came to a T junction. Here we turned right into a farm track and followed it before taking the first left. This track took us up a long steep climb with good views of the bay behind us. Eventually we passed Silver Mines Farm on our right. The remains of Combe Martin’s last working silver mine are a little further with some of its chimney still standing. It was abandoned in 1875. There was a royal silver mine in Combe Martin by 1292, and you will find some of the village’s silver in the Crown Jewels. Without ever being a California or a Nevada, Combe Martin sporadically produced quite a chunk of silver over the centuries.
When we reached a metalled road, we turned left and then right along the driveway to Girt Down Farm. We passed round the edge of the farm and then the track took us through the fields and out on to Girt Down where we met the coastal path again. As we took a breather before turning right towards the truck, watching the odd walker puffing up out of Sherrycombe, a sparrow hawk raced round the corner of a wall.

Eleven Mile Walk from Washford to Minehead via The Butchers Arms, Carhampton

2010-10-14T04:33:00.000-07:00

Railway posters for British seaside holidays are an art form in themselves. The sun always shines, yachts scud across an azure sea, improbably shaped bodies chuck beach balls at each other, and children play on improbably golden sands. As a small boy, I stared fascinated at the ones which decorated the compartments on the trains from our village station. I even went by train for our annual seaside holiday at Burnham-on-Sea and still managed to forgive the posters for the lies which they cheerfully peddled. Such is the seductive power of art.
We found this one outside the Minehead terminus of the West Somerset Railway. These resuscitated railways are fantasy made flesh, or at least steam, smoke and metal. The stations are immaculately painted in the old colours of the Great Western Railway, and the flower beds are lovingly tended. It only needed a whiff of a paraffin lamp and of Jeyes Fluid in the Gents and I could have imagined Mr Gate with his whistle and flag still standing on the Hallatrow platform as we set off for Mells Road. We clambered into an old carriage and the locomotive chuffed off northwards, leaving a tattered ribbon of smoke hanging over the fields. At Blue Anchor the line ran so close to the tide line that the train seemed to running along the edge of the waves. We clambered out at Washford and walked along the busy A39 to find the footpath leading back towards Minehead. It was well-marked through some old pastures and eventually became a track. As we climbed there were good views towards the coast as far as Minehead, and above us brooded the tops of the Brendon Hills. We were only just outside the boundaries of the National Park, but this rich farmland seemed a world away from the moors and marshes of Exmoor proper. Here stubbles had been cultivated and in some fields winter cereals were already well-advanced.
When we reached a three-way cross, we went straight on up the narrow lane until we reached a house called Forche’s Gardens. Here we turned right and followed the track to Escott Farm, passing in front of its handsome buildings and then through a belt of woodland. We marched forwards through a succession of gates and fields until we crossed a fenced alleyway of well-tended grass. This was the top of the racehorse gallops belonging to Sandhill Farm where Philip Hobbs trains one of the most successful strings in National Hunt racing. Far below us we could see the ranks of schooling jumps. We passed through a gate into some rough woodland, and it was soon after we emerged from it that we made our only mistake of the day. The footpath sign directed us to our left to follow the headland around some exotic new ley grass which the sheep were munching with enthusiasm. When we came to a gate into a lane, we passed through it and turned to our left, as we had planned in advance after studying the map. We had forgotten, however, that we had been diverted from the original course of the footpath which went straight across the field and which led to a different gate.
Every walker knows that sense of growing unease as anticipated markers - a lane here, a curve there – fail to appear in their proper turn. We floundered on until it became obvious that we were walking the wrong way. Disregarding all that chauvinist prejudice about Mars and Venus as she peered at the map, my wife immediately grasped where we were and spotted a bridle way which would repair the damage. We sped along to its end, and there turned down a lane which took us into Withycombe.
The plan had been to climb up Withycombe Hill before descending to Carhampton to sample the delights of the Butchers Arms. We were thirsty, however, and behind schedule, and so we took the narrow lane which quickly brought us to the A39. Carhampton is a substantial village, and even boasts a set of traffic lights, a rare mark of distinction and sophistication in West Somerset. We made our way along the main road until there, in the centre of the village, was the Butchers Arms. The Butchers Arms is trying hard – very hard. There is not one box on the pub landlord’s list of survival techniques which the “Butchers” has failed to tick. Two well-kept cask beers, Exmoor Ale and Courage Best… extensive menu of very reasonably priced food…kid’s menu…games room…kid’s play area…quiz nights…log burning stove…pleasant service. It’s open every day of the week and virtually every hour of the day. It’s not like some pubs we know on the Moor for which you just about need Old Moore’s Almanac, or even a crystal ball, to work out whether the door will be firmly locked at the most surprising of times. I say “Good luck” to the Butchers Arms and all who sail in her, but it’s not my kind of pub. Probably I was still grumpy after my map reading skills had lost some of their lustre, but I felt ill at ease. Every table was set with place mats for eating, and was surrounded with soft, high backed chairs. In most pubs the geography leads you straight to the bar, but here you weaved your way thither between the tables. It was a bit of a caff. In fact one punter came in off the street, wandered about for a bit, studied one of the laminated menu cards and, perhaps disorientated, disappeared the way that he had come without ordering. There was a television screen on in one corner but the sound system played unrelated muzak. Two elderly ladies got stuck into curry, but one sent hers back because “it wasn’t hot enough.” Presumably she was referring to the temperature rather than the intensity of the flavouring.
We found our way into a lane which ran parallel with the main road, and this led us to Carhampton Gate. From there a footpath took us through the old deer park of Dunster Castle which stood before us on its wooded eminence. When we reached the edge of the village, we took a path which led us around the perimeter, passing the old mill and its remarkable bridge. We had decided to return to Minehead by walking along the edge of the sea, and so we left Dunster by the subway under the A39. When we had walked this way previously, we had been intrigued by a building at the side of the main road which originally had been a police station. Now divided into cottages, it looked more like a French chateau than a Victorian copshop. As it turned out, it had been designed by none other than the celebrated architect John Norton in 1858, just two years before he began work on Tyntesfield House near Bristol, one of the most exotic examples of the gothic revival and currently being restored by the National Trust.
We passed by Dunster Station. If we do a similar walk again, we will join the train here. The parking’s free, as opposed to £5.50 in Minehead! The path took us to the lovely Old Manor at Lower Marsh Farm, and then out on to the golf course. We soon discovered that the golfer’s traditional shout when he missed a putt was quite different to the warning on the poster, although coincidentally it began with same consonant. As we walked between the course and the beach, most of West Somerset Community College appeared to be coming the other way. Were they on their way home? A hundred or so children surely didn’t live at Dunster Beach. Were they on a field trip? No one was carrying a clip board or note pad. They wandered amicably and aimlessly along, with just one melancholy teacher nominally in charge. Perhaps walking had become part of the national curriculum, in which case we deserved an A*.

Ten Mile Walk around Wimbleball Lake and Haddon Hill to the Lowtrow Cross Inn

2010-09-29T06:16:00.000-07:00

Remember, children, not to try this experiment at home. What is it about Tuesdays? When I was a member of the Wonderful World of Work, everything went wrong on Tuesdays. Machinery or computers failed, staff went awol, customers winged. Even your hangover from the weekend was just a distant memory, and still there were four days of unrelenting toil until the end of the week. Tuesday, we should have known.
It could not have started better. We managed to find the obscure car park at the end of a single track lane at Lyddons, strategically above Wimbleball Lake. As it is shown on the map simply as “Car Pk.” in the smallest possible letters, one suspects a conspiracy to ensure that as few people as possible use it. We set off for the lake along the footpath with a light heart, the sun glinting on the water below us. When we started to walk clockwise around the eastern shoreline, Wimbleball Lake looked more like Wimbleball Puddle, even though it has not been the driest of summers. No one appears to be panicking about the low water level in the reservoir, least of all a lonely heron on the edge of the water, and so no doubt the torrential winter rain on Exmoor and the flight of the tourists at the end of autumn is expected to put matters right. “Rugged” is the favourite word of the sign writers here. We were warned against a “rugged path” towards the dam at the south-western corner of the lake, but took it all the same. It was entirely straightforward, even a mite tedious as it ploughed straight through the woodland above the shrunken waters of the lake. Eventually, when the grey mass of the dam was staring us in the face, we found a small hunting gate and took a broad track leading upwards over Haddon Hill. At a T junction we turned left on to a concrete road which led us to the top of the hill, where there were ponies and commanding views. If we came here again – which we won’t – we would keep to the north of the plantation on the crest of the hill, but somehow we found ourselves stranded on a major road. It mattered little as traffic was negligible, even though the road is probably the only straight one in West Somerset. I was so impressed that I stood in the middle of the carriageway to record it for posterity. I expect that the local boy racers come up here at night and drag their John Deeres and silage bale wrappers. We had intended to walk through the woodland known as Britannia’s Shield, planted and divided in imitation of the eponymous patriotic piece of armour. Sadly, there was no obvious access and appropriately, on a day on which a defence cuts scandal broke, half of the shield appeared to have been chopped down.
We plodded on along the highway, past the odd dead pigeon or squirrel, the verge decorated with bits of the “Daily Star”. Each piece was separate, as if a white van man had jettisoned his reading matter carefully sheet by sheet as he drove along, assassinating the odd small animal as he went. The dog racing page, written by my old chum Jim Austin, fluttered in the strengthening wind.
Morale now had perceptibly declined, rather as when Captain Scott discovered that the primus stove had run out of juice a few miles short of One Ton Camp. Through Bridge End and Upton we tramped, the sky darkening all the time as an odd sprinkle of rain brushed our faces, past bungalows, cottages and the plain Victorian church, onwards towards Lowtrow Cross and its famous inn, ready to welcome us with a tawny pint of ale.
At last we turned a corner and there it was. Reader, you knew it all the time, didn’t you? And so did we, if we tell the truth. It was just one of those Tuesdays. A bloke was up a ladder, painting the window frames. “It’s closed,” he announced, and so it was, the door firmly shut. The Lowtrow Cross Inn doesn’t open on Monday and Tuesday mornings. We are becoming used to public houses turning out to be semi-public houses. The internet later informed me, not only of the opening hours, but also that for a hundred grand I could buy the lease. I only wanted a pint. We could only shrug our shoulders and study the map for a way back to the truck.
This proved easier than we might have expected. Footpaths through farms and farmland can turn out to be the proverbial minefield, but some officer of West Somerset Council must have spent a happy day spattering the countryside with myriads of signs. We whizzed from Moorhouse Farm to Hayne Farm and along the lane towards St James Church (remains of), which was probably a good thing as the rain was now falling in earnest. Only the tower of the fourteenth century church remains. The rest was pulled down in the middle of the nineteenth century when they built the nondescript edifice which is now the local place of worship. Presumably the worshippers had tired of walking up the hill once a week.
A quick dash up a lane brought us back to the secret car park and shelter.

Six and a half mile walk on Yarde Down and back to the Poltimore Arms

2010-09-26T11:12:00.000-07:00

The Poltimore Arms at Yarde Down is tucked away off the road between South Molton and Simonsbath, and so this sign wisely sticks out of the hedge to warn the thirsty traveller of its presence around the corner. Opposite there is a convenient indent in which the truck could park snugly. “Delectare in Domino” – “Delight in the Lord” - is the motto of the Barons Poltimore, who were once big cheeses in this part of the world. When Lord Poltimore in the 1940’s divided his hunting country between the Dulverton Farmers and the Dulverton West, it still produced two very sizeable hunks of land. Even today the latter pack hunts three days a week anywhere between Withypool in the east and the sea at Braunton in the west.
The Poltimores’ motto comes from a psalm which continues, “Et dabit tibi petitiones cordis tui…” – “Delight in the Lord and he will give you what your heart seeks.” As we walked away up Sherracombe Lane, we could feel that He indeed had granted all our wishes that morning. It was a beautifully sunny autumn day and, with crystal-clear air flooding down from the north, we were blessed with far-reaching views to the south over Devon. The track soon led us to Sherracombe Ford where a sign informed us that there had once been an iron bloomery here, obvious from the smelting’s surviving spoil heaps. Well, they probably were there, and probably they were obvious to the archaeologists who had excavated the site a few years previously, but we blinked and still missed this detritus from Celtic-Romano industry. It hardly mattered because, as we ascended the almost perpendicular footpath which led away northwards from the track, we were not only blessed with a marvellous view down the combe, but we found ourselves above two circling buzzards as they soared and gyred above the sunlit valley. Sadly, every attempt to capture the moment with our little digital camera failed, but soon the mewing raptors, now joined by a third, were mobbed by a squadron of rooks.
The ascent eventually levelled off somewhat and we reached the ridge road between Mole’s Chamber and Kinsford Gate. We turned right on to the road and walked along it a little way before turning right into another track which skirted Five Barrows Hill. The farming on these favoured southern slopes is more prosperous than in the middle of Exmoor and, although there are several farm tracks for getting across the country, there are few footpaths and bridle ways. It is a pleasure to walk along them nonetheless, and when we reached Five Barrows Cross, we went straight across and along the lane until we reached Span Head.
Here we turned right down another farm track which led us south towards the hamlet of Bentwitchen. Again the view was superb and stretched as far as the brooding shadows of the northern slopes of Dartmoor. Near the foot of the track a farmer, with the aid of a tractor battery, was shearing sheep. A little further on we came into Bentwitchen, a sleepy huddle of farms, barns, and cottages. We walked westwards along the narrow lane, over a stream crossed by the “Irish Champion’s Bridge” as it was named on the map. What fabulous story could lay behind this extraordinary name? We passed a couple of farms, one receiving a major make-over, but not a single vehicle passed us.
We eventually came out into the South Molton-Simonsbath road, but even on this highway we met fewer than half a dozen cars as we turned right and climbed back towards the Poltimore Arms. We had been expecting the approach of a tractor for some time but, as the sound of a diesel engine grew louder but one of John Deer’s finest never appeared, the explanation finally dawned on us. It was the pub’s generator in full swing. The Poltimore Arms does not enjoy mains electricity, nor mains water, nor mains anything for that matter. We had once enjoyed an atmospheric evening at the pub when a burst pipe had shorted out the electrics, and we had dined by the light of the roaring fire and some candles. There is everything to like about this splendid pub. New landlords have given the old bar a lick of paint but otherwise nothing has changed. Here’s a place where you can sit beneath the pictures of the old timers who have used the pub over the years and of meets of hounds, and enjoy a pint in front of the fire. The beer is still tapped straight from the barrel. We had two excellent pints of Betty Stoggs, brewed by Skinners of Truro, a very decent traditional bitter at 4%. Litehouse, from the Forge Brewery, was also available.
An archway leads through to a small dining room furnished with scrubbed wooden tables and chairs. The blackboard in the bar offers a wide selection of good grub at reasonable prices. We had supper here just after the new people, from nearby North Molton, took over, and it remains one of our favourite places to eat out. On this occasion we were enjoying a liquid lunch, but Alan and Pauline Lockwood gave us a very friendly welcome. Good luck to them! Opening hours at present are Tuesday to Saturday, 12.00 pm to 2.30 pm and 5.30 pm to 11.00 pm; Sundays 12.00 pm to 3.00 pm; closed Sunday evening and all day Monday.

Twelve Mile Walk from Withypool around Horsen Ford and back to the Royal Oak

2010-09-16T11:26:00.000-07:00

Withypool is a wonderful centre for walking. We know, we live there. This website may give its occasional readers the misleading impression that the sun shines every day on Exmoor, but all those cheery pictures only look that way because, if the weather is wretched, we stay at home. More accurate is the old saying, “In the summer, on Exmoor, it rains every other day; in the winter, it rains every day.” On this sunny September morning, however, the river Barle looked its best as we crossed the bridge and walked past the village shop.
A few yards further on we turned left up a narrow path with a handrail, and then followed the footpath past the abandoned school and uphill through the fields belonging to Summerhill. The planning authority in its wisdom has refused permission for change of use for the school from a redundant field centre, (I know of at least two others within the National Park,) to a private dwelling, and thus its missionary zeal has rewarded the owner with a white elephant and the village with a long-term eyesore.
We came out into a lane between steep banks topped with beech and turned left, passing the drive entrance to Summerhill. This is Kitridge Lane, a wonderfully sheltered place to exercise horses in rough weather, when the ripping winter winds send the rain, hail and snow flying horizontally over the hedgerows. We walked up it until we reached the gate out on to Bradymoor. To the left we caught glimpses of Brightworthy Barrows, a highpoint on Withypool Common.

Here we followed the track straight ahead until we crossed the road and kept on over the moor, following the path correctly signed, for the time being, to Cow Castle. The wooden finger posts on the moor take some fearful punishment, particularly from the wild ponies rubbing themselves against them, and all too often you find the board here splintered or pointing in an eccentric direction.
Where the path began to descend, the landscape opened before us. To the south stretched the valley which leads up Sherdon Water.

In high summer where the Water meets the River Barle at Sherdon Hutch, a wooden barrier to hold back uprooted trees in time of floods, families with picnics sit on the bank here and plunge dauntlessly into the stream.
As we walked downwards, on our left we could see the river Barle shimmering silver as it flowed towards the ancient columns of Landacre Bridge.

A bridge has stood here for centuries. In Anglo-Saxon times, a feudal parliament known as the Wainsmote met here.
The path eventually led us through a plantation of conifers to Horsen Ford, where there is a footbridge over the River Barle. Upstream are the hummocks of Cow Castle and The Calf.

Downstream the water dazzled in the sunlight. Near the bank we found a patch of Field Scabious, another wild flower to add to our list.

The track from the ford led upwards through a remote valley. There are few paths on this part of the Moor, and the uplands to the left, which we know well from hunting there in winter, stretch from the evil Horsen Bog over the top of the hill known as Ferny Ball back towards Sherdon Water. The track took us through a number of gates and a herd of cattle, until it reached Horsen Farm. We stayed on the concrete farm road for only a few yards before we turned left and headed up the bridleway towards Horsen Hill. The farm is a large and well-kept holding, particularly for Exmoor, and the pastures are carefully maintained leys for the good-looking cattle. Horsen Hill itself, however, is a different matter. Although this rough, rushy, moorland top is easy to negotiate in September, later in the year it would be a nightmare for walkers. Even horses labour through its sticky, black morasses.
On the far side of the hill the country around Barkham opened before us.

We followed the track round towards what the maps call Withypool Cross and the locals, Woolcombe Cross. Just past where an attempt to build some form of sheep pen had been abandoned half-completed for some reason, we came to Sherdon Farm. This isolated dwelling may appear to be empty, with a disembowelled car rotting quietly before it, but it is not. We did not dwell, and soon we were at the foot of the track, crossing Sherdon Water.

A steep climb, with Woolcombe Farm on our left, took us to a motor road where we turned left. As we walked northwards, on our left we could see the cottage in the lee of Ferny Ball hill. Up until ten years ago the cottage was in ruins and only served to shelter an old caravan, in which lived the famous Exmoor writer, Hope Bourne, who sadly died a few weeks ago. Her only comfort in the caravan was a wood-burning stove, and she fed herself by shooting pigeon, deer, rabbit and hare with a .22 Winchester rifle or a twelve bore shotgun. Her water came from a stream, and to save washing up she ate straight from the frying pan and drank from three mugs; one for tea, one for coffee, and one for lemonade. When in her eighties she was persuaded to live in a house in Withypool, she slept on the floor in front of the fire. Books like “Living On Exmoor” brought her a measure of fame, but she never compromised her way of living and only just missed her ninety third birthday.
To the right of Ferny Ball lay the valley of the Barle which led back to Horsen Ford.

As we crossed a cattle grid back on to the open moor, we could see as far as Dunkery Beacon. We walked downwards towards Landacre Bridge, and then swung right up the path which led back to Withypool.

As we approached Brightworthy Farm, in a dense tunnel of beeches, we came across an extraordinary object.

A banana skin, a rotten bloody banana skin! What kind of mind could have dropped litter in this most beautiful of places, a good fifteen minutes walk from the nearest public highway? Even a monkey would have paused for thought before dumping it. Banana skins may well be biodegradable but could he not have put it back in his pocket? Only the waters of the Barle tumbling over its low ledges could soothe away the irritation.

The path followed the river closely until there was the Withypool bridge in front of us again.

The “Royal Oak” at Withypool has been one of our favourite pubs since we first drank here thirty years ago. Even then Jake Blackmore probably was keeping the bar and its excellent pint of bitter.

Landlords have come and gone, but Jake has remained loyally at his post, as much a part of the scenery as the hunting prints and relics which crowd the walls. If you disapprove of hunting, you are as entitled to your opinion as the next man, but just remember if you are standing in the Royal Oak at Withypool, its odds on that the next man loves hunting with a passion. And that includes the long-haired bloke behind the bar.
The Royal Oak today is leased by the owners of the nearby Tarr Farm Inn, famous for its haute cuisine, and so you would expect the pub grub at the “Oak” to be of a superior kind. You can get a sandwich or a ploughman’s at lunchtime, but the specials are the thing – fresh figs with blue cheese and parma ham, wood pigeon and peach sausages, venison steaks, and so forth and so on.

It’s difficult to think of anything more pleasant than sitting in the low black-beamed room, the fire blazing, with a day on the Moor behind you, and before you a pint of Jake’s bitter.

Eight Mile Walk along the Exe Valley from Exford, returning to the White Horse

2010-09-03T10:01:00.000-07:00

This is an ideal pre-lunch canter from Exford, the village which stands at the hub of the Moor. If you start at ten o’clock, you will be walking through the door of the White Horse at one. We parked in the spacious and free Exmoor National Park car park, and took the riverside path at its southern end. Since we passed by the National Park workshops, it was not surprising that this walk is particularly well-signed. We walked with the river glinting in the sunlight on our right, with Melcombe House above us, until we reached the bridge to Court Farm, and there struck off to our left towards Lyncombe.
Where a path climbed away to the left towards Higher Combe, we kept to the right, passing through the riverside meadows until we joined a bridle path which led us past Lyncombe Farm itself. The path continued through bracken, climbing above the river to give good views across the valley towards Room Hill.

Eventually the track led through the isolated settlement of Nethercote, only accessible by vehicle along a couple of miles of rough lane from the Winsford direction.

We crossed the Exe by the bridge, the only one between Exford and Larcombe Foot, and soon afterwards left the track to climb steeply upwards towards Bye Common. It’s a sharp ascent but worth it for the view from the top. The bracken cover towards Staddon Farm to the north is a great place for seeing deer.

To the east we could look out over the Brendon Hills.

We passed through a gate and made our way along the edge of the Common over some wobbly going where the field had been reseeded. Soon, however, we could see the two paths which lead down to the river again at Larcombe Foot. On a hot day this is a deliciously cool spot where the river runs through the trees, and a good place to water your horse after a run with the stag hounds.

We crossed the bridge and took the track known as Kemps Lane back towards the top of the valley. It’s a steep and enclosed way, but at the top we were rewarded with some marvellous views to the north over Staddon Hill towards Dunkery Beacon.

There are few paths down the northern side of the Exe valley and, ignoring the track to Staddon Farm which would have returned us to Nethercote, we kept on the now metalled lane which took us along, with steep wooded valleys on our right, until we reached the concrete road down to Higher Combe.
We walked past the two dwellings at Higher Combe until we could pass through a gate at the beginning of a footpath which would take us back to the river. We scrambled across a foot bridge and through a little wooded valley, and then passed through a line of meadows until we rejoined the path by which we had left Exford earlier in the morning.
The White Horse, its façade covered in Virginia Creeper, is an Exmoor icon. It is very much a hunting establishment, and to its left there is a livery yard still housing its traditional complement of hunters.The handsome kennels of the Devon & Somerset Staghounds, built in 1875, stand at the edge of the village on the Simonsbath road.

We walked past the main door of the hotel and round to the right to go straight into the bar. Coincidentally there we found together Exmoor’s two best-known barmen. Jeremy Connell, a fixture at the White Horse for many years, was in his usual position behind his bar with Jake Blackmore, barman of the “Royal Oak”, Withypool, for over thirty years, perched on a stool opposite him.
The White Horse always has Exmoor Ale on draught along with a couple from Sharps’ Cornish Brewery, but on this morning it also offered Exmoor Antler, specially brewed to celebrate the Wiveliscombe brewery’s thirtieth anniversary. Jeremy did not hesitate to give us a sample in a shot glass, always a welcome courtesy. Darker and a little stronger than the ubiquitous Ale, it was a very satisfying and well-kept pint. If you want something more than a liquid lunch, the White Horse has the widest range of bar meals on the Moor, many of them at the most reasonable price too. A sandwich for less than £3 still survives here, and you can even treat yourself to that retro masterpiece of English cuisine – and I myself would look no further – of egg and chips.
The run of the staghounds from Upcott Cross and other important matters had been thoroughly discussed when a gentleman sitting on a stool at the bar piped up, “I can’t think what’s happened to my wife. She’s over half an hour late and can’t have got lost. After all, there’s only one pub in Winsford, isn’t there?” He was assured that in this he was indisputably correct but that, unfortunately, he was in Exford.

Twelve and a Half Mile Walk from Withypool to the Royal Oak, Winsford, via the Caractacus Stone

2010-08-19T07:11:00.000-07:00

This route turned out to be longer than we expected, but it can be trimmed by three miles or so by parking by the cattle grid near Comer’s Cross on the Exford-Dulverton Road above Withypool and walking straight over Winsford Hill to Spire’s Cross. We started at Withypool by walking out of the village past the Royal Oak pub and up the hill towards Comer’s Cross. Half-way up the hill we climbed over the stile on the right of the road and started off on the well-trodden path along the River Barle towards Tarr Steps. At first the path gives good views of Withypool Hill over King’s Farm, one of Withypool’s several top-class B&Bs, popular with riders, walkers, and shooters alike.

We continued along the river bank through meadows and old woodland until we reached the junction with the bridleway which leads towards Winsford Hill. This led us steeply upwards, eventually through an enclosure into which the Great Bradley shoot releases its young pheasants. With less than two months to go before the start of the shooting season, there already were squads of them scuttling about in panic at our approach.
At the lane which leads down to the farm, we turned left and walked up towards Winsford Hill. Behind us loomed the mass of Withypool Hill, and in the field on our left, grazing with sheep for company, a grey hunter waited patiently for his master to start the new staghunting season.

At the gates by Great Bradley Lodge, we inclined slightly right to take the track up over Winsford Hill until we met the path coming up from Comer’s Cross. Here we angled right so that we walked across the moor parallel to the road, now on our left. Winsford Hill rises to fourteen hundred feet and usually there can be magnificent views from here to the south, first over Anstey Common, and finally to Dartmoor itself. Sadly, on this August morning, despite the weather forecast’s promise of a dry day, the landscape darkened and a shower veiled the horizon. Eventually we could see Spire’s Cross below us, where a narrow lane comes up from Tarr Steps to cross the main road over the hill. We walked just a little way from the Cross towards Dulverton before we were rewarded with a sign to the left pointing towards the Caractacus Stone. We threaded our way through a maze of gorse bushes before suddenly confronted with the Stone snug under its little shelter.

There are endless theories about the Stone but the most persuasive perhaps is that the mysterious letters stand for “Carataci Nepos”, meaning in Latin “a kinsman of Caractacus.”

Caractacus was a Celtic leader who led resistance against the Roman invasion. Captured, he was taken to Rome in chains but, after making a heroic speech to the Senate, he was released to live the rest of his life in Rome. The stone may have been inscribed around 500 AD by a local war leader laying claim to kinship with Caractacus to help rally support against Anglo-Saxon invaders. The stone, after all, may be much older, a Neolithic menhir, on which the local Romano British Taliban carved some boastful graffiti.
From the Stone we walked straight on across the moor known as The Allotment, keeping a field boundary on our left. This path eventually met a track coming down from the right from Mounsey Hill Gate. A little further on we passed through some gates and walked diagonally across a large pasture towards the road at Summerway. Just before we reached the road, we turned left through a gate which led into Yellowcombe. A bridleway, very steep to begin with, descends the wooded combe in parallel to a new track which has been driven through to permit vehicular access and which is private. Sometimes the two merge but for the most part the bridleway continues independently.
At the foot of the valley, in a clearing, stands Yellowcombe Cottage.

We had passed it on an earlier walk, and had speculated then on how this remote dwelling was supplied. The new track does not lead up to the cottage and appears to have been built to service the forestry. The house is ringed by a stream, and how fuel – wood, bottled gas, or otherwise – could be delivered easily, was a mystery. A paraffin lamp standing in one of the windows promised that there were few modern comforts here. The path to the house was printed by the many slots of passing deer.

As we passed on towards Winsford, the owner of the cottage came the other way, his needs packed in a plastic bag.
We came out into Halse Lane descending from Winsford Hill and walked into the village. The Royal Oak is one of Exmoor’s iconic buildings, with its handsome thatched roof. Its sign boasts a very good portrait of Charles II, the monarch who named a thousand pubs by hiding in an oak tree to escape Cromwell’s troopers after losing the Battle of Worcester in 1651.

If England wishes to celebrate a patriotic national holiday, it should do so on “Oak Apple Day”, the 29th May, the date in 1660 when Charles returned to London and to the throne, ending years of religious totalitarianism, and allowing the reopening of theatres, racecourses, cockpits, and everything else that makes life worthwhile.
Thirty years ago we used to stay at this lovely hotel. It has been much altered and extended, but the first part of the bar is much as it always was. It usually offers Exmoor Stag as well as Ale, but this time the Stag sign on the pump had been turned inwards. With the Punchbowl waiting for us, it was probably a blessing that we made do with the weaker beer. Food at the Royal Oak is at the smart end of pub nosh, and you would have to expect to pay a couple of pounds more than cheaper places on the moor. Foodies, however, would appreciate the imaginative menu. For meanies like us, there are complimentary dishes of nuts on the bar.
Winsford, a beautiful village, is a place of streams and bridges.

One of its plainer cottages was the birthplace of Ernest Bevin, the sort of Labour politician that most conservatives would approve of. He was a key member of the Churchill wartime coalition and, after the 1945 Labour landslide, served as Foreign Secretary, championing Britain’s nuclear arsenal as a bulwark, not only against Soviet Russia, but against the United States as well.

We walked out of Winsford up Ash Lane towards Withypool, before turning left into a narrow footpath signposted to the Punchbowl. The path is very straightforward and led us past Withycombe Farm and up the very steep climb up the edge of the Punchbowl. The views are magnificent as much from the bottom

as from the top. From the rim of the Punchbowl we took a path which led across the moor back towards Comer’s Cross. You need to steer a middle course here;- turn too far uphill and you will reach the main road, turn too far downhill and you will find yourself heading for Ash Lane. We reached the road at the cattle grid at Comer’s Gate, and turned left at the Cross to walk back down into Withypool.

Nine and a Half Mile Walk from Withypool to Tarr Farm Inn via Withypool Hill and Old Barrow Down

2010-08-01T06:31:00.000-07:00

Many may walk down the valley of the Barle from Withypool to Tarr Steps, but far fewer take the wild way over Withypool Hill to Porchester’s Post and on by Old Barrow Down. Up there you follow in the footsteps of the ancients as you march past the burial grounds and stone circles of Bronze Age man across the windy uplands. History, of course, comes at a price, and first there is a climb of five hundred feet from the village car park in Withypool to the top of Withypool Hill. You should turn right out of the park and at the junction keep straight on towards Hawkridge, ignoring the road to the right which leads to Sandyway and to North Molton. During the summer locals like ourselves would appreciate a fiver for every car which dithers here, the husband at the wheel purple with fury, the unwilling and tearful navigator at his side staring desperately at the map on her knees.
We walked up the steep hill past the village hall and on until we passed the entrance to Blacklands. A hundred yards further on, opposite the cattle grid and the drive which leads to Batsom Farm, we turned right off the road to follow a track upwards towards the summit of the hill. The barrow which once stood on top of Withypool Hill was excavated, or robbed, many years ago and only a slight crater remains, marked with a small cairn of stones. All too often the weather conditions here at 1300 feet justify an adaptation of the famous saying about Skiddaw, the mountain of the Northern Lake District. “If you can’t see Withypool Hill, it’s raining. If you can see Withypool Hill, it’s about to rain.” Fortunately, on this morning, there was a brisk breeze from the north west and the views over the heather and gorse of the moorland were superb. At ten o’clock a stand of trees marked Warren Farm and the Forest beyond.

At two o’clock the summit of Dunkery Beacon stood out.

At four o’clock lay the crest of Winsford Hill.

When we turned to the south west, we could see a large enclosure in the middle distance, split into four sections. Locals know it prosaically as “Four Fields” but on a map it is given the magnificent title of “Tudball’s Splats”. The origins of the name remain stubbornly obscure. “Tudball” as a surname is straightforward enough, an English corruption of the old German “Theobald”, meaning “brave people”, but “Splats” is more difficult. A “splat” is a strip of wood, from the old German “splatten”, to split. Perhaps, therefore, it was local dialect for simply a division of land, in this case into four segments.

. The importance of Tudball’s Splatts, as you stand on the top of the hill, is that, if you take the path from the summit towards the enclosure, it will lead you through the famous stone circle. Walkers who try to find the circle from the southern edge of the hill are often disappointed as the stones lie half-concealed in the grass and heather, and are difficult to spot from below.

There were once some forty of them, dating from 1700 to 1400 BC, but you shouldn’t expect a mini Stonehenge. SH Burton, however, in his seminal study “Exmoor”, considered the Withypool circle the outstanding example on the Moor. “What gods were worshipped we cannot know for sure, but may guess,” Burton speculates, “that the sun, fire, and sex were deified.” If you have ever been out on Withypool Common in winter in driving wind and rain, you wouldn’t be at all surprised that our ancestors considered the above three things worth praying or sacrificing for.
When we left the circle, we kept on towards Tudball’s Splats as the main track from the village to Porchester’s Post passes the enclosure. The beech hedges have run wild and the edges of the banks have softened, but a band of wild ponies, together with a herd of sheep, was sheltering there from the sun and the flies. In the winter the ponies will have it to themselves, apart from travelling deer or foxes, as under the modern management of the Common, all cattle and sheep have to be off from November until the end of March.

We climbed on up the sand and stone track until we reached a gate, beyond which lay Porchester’s Post. The original post, which marks the boundary between Hawkridge and Withypool parishes, was set up by the Carnarvon family of Highclere Castle in 1796 when it acquired Hawkridge by marrying into the Acland family. In today’s hierarchy, Lord Porchester is the eldest son of the Earl Of Carnarvon. At 1272 feet above sea level, the post is almost as high as Withypool Hill itself.

We passed through the gate and then, following the direction of the finger post, we turned left off the track and scrambled over the sheep fencing and bank on to the open moorland beyond. There is no stile. We kept close to the field edge on our left until we reached a gateway where another finger post pointed across the moorland at an angle to our right. The sign is not strictly accurate but, if we had halved the angle between the field edge and the sign, this would have brought us directly to the next gateway.

With a great view to our left over Worth Farm and Winsford Hill, we walked on to the corner of Old Barrow Plantation and then, without a path to guide us, we kept the enclosure close on our left as we made our way through dense grassland. The going is not for the faint-hearted, even on a dry day in July, and would present a serious challenge later in the year. It’s an area we know well in winter, but only on horseback. At the end of the plantation we inclined right handed towards the far hedge to find the gate which led into a pasture. This we crossed to a gate directly opposite.
Here we met our first bull. He was standing amongst his wives, staring at us balefully, a real comic book bull with a ring through his nose. Now the key to understanding bulls is as follows. If they are “beef bulls”, bred to produce meat, they are probably pussy cats. If they are “dairy bulls”, bred to produce cream teas, they are probably homicidal. As there are no dairy cattle in the area, and as I had enjoyed an in-depth discussion with the bull’s owner the previous Saturday on his summer breeding plans, I thought that we were pretty safe. Even so we kept close to the fence in case we had to resort to an undignified scramble for safety. As with pavements, so with bulls; a gentleman walks on the outside of the lady. The bull and his entourage loftily ignored us.
We crossed the Withypool/Hawkridge road into another pasture, this time with a Belgian Blue bull and his girls, who resolved any doubts about their intentions by running off in the opposite direction. We made our way to the gate opposite and then inclined to the left through another field before another gateway led us into the bridleway between the Westwater and Parsonage Farms. Here we turned right and walked through a succession of pastures overlooking the Westwater valley, thick with clover and wild flowers and ready for cutting. On the far side of the valley a farmer was mowing a field into a geometrically precise maze-like pattern. Elsewhere haymaking in late July would be a last-chance affair but on Exmoor it goes on until September, whenever the rain stops for five minutes. Just before Parsonage Farm, we turned left away from the farm and followed the path downwards until it became a sunken lane. On our right was a house which once was the Tarr Steps Hotel, and then suddenly the Steps themselves were in front of us.

There is an on-going quarrel over how old the bridge is. Some claim that it dates back to the Bronze Age, others only to the early Middle Ages. If SH Burton is correct in thinking that “Tarr” derives from the Celtic “Tochar”, meaning a causeway, it is of considerable antiquity. The very landscape tells you that there has been a crossing of some kind here since earliest times. Try crossing the river on a horse anywhere else between Dulverton and Withypool in deep midwinter.
This wonderful “clapper” bridge in its beautiful woodland setting is one of Exmoor’s most popular attractions, and you should not be surprised to find the crowds. A kiosk sells fishing nets and ice cream, and small children can happily wile away a whole summer’s day here. Set high above the river there is a pay car park with all the usual facilities.
When we came here first over thirty years ago Tarr Farm was just a tea room, but now it is a luxurious hotel, famous for its haute cuisine. The “Inn” part of the “Tarr Farm Inn” is, perhaps, a little misleading. You could hardly call it a pub – you can’t play darts or spit on the floor - but it has a nice little bar with alcoves created from old wood and iron stalls, and it serves Exmoor Ale and Gold in prime condition.

It also provides pub grub at lunchtime in every shape and form, from things with chips to cream teas, and meanies can get away with a ciabatta sandwich for a fiver. Otherwise expect to pay a pound or two more than is usual on the Moor. You can eat them in the terraced gardens high above the river.

To see how the same management run an undeniable pub, visit its marvellous Royal Oak upstream at Withypool.
The walk back to Withypool up the east bank of the river remains a delight, however often you may have passed that way. When we passed the foot bridge which helps form a short circular walk from the Steps, the crowds dwindled away. The closer you come to Withypool, the better the views through the old woodland to the waters of the Barle below.

Once you could cross the river near Withypool by the stepping stones below South Hill Farm, but a couple of years ago a fallen tree was washed down stream and blocked them. After a considerable delay, the Park Authority at last has removed the tree, but some of the stones have been dislodged and the survivors no longer provide a safe crossing. You would do better to wade.

We kept to the conventional path, and entered the village by passing the Royal Oak and walking on over the bridge. There is no better centre for walking than Withypool. It has a car park, a shop, a pub, and a tea room. What more could you want?

Nine Mile Walk from Dunster to Minehead, and back to the Stag’s Head via Dunster Beach

2010-07-26T10:38:00.000-07:00

This is a walk of contrast to say the least, between the sweeping views over the Bristol Channel from the hog’s back between Dunster and Wotton Courtenay, and the garish seaside tatt of Minehead. We parked in the small car park on the southern edge of Dunster, and walked towards the village centre, past the Stag’s Head, our ultimate objective. Just by Exmoor’s only traffic lights, we took the path which runs past the handsome church, as its famous clock chimed the hour, and climbed upwards past the school, cemetery, and allotments into the woodland of Grabbist Hill.
After a steepish climb, the path broke into the open with a grand view over Minehead and North Hill.

Under a sullen sky the air was remarkably clear, and we could see the Welsh coast and beyond as well as the islands of Flat Holm and Steep Holm further up the Severn estuary.

To our left we could look back over the wooded slopes of Croydon Hill and the vale of Timberscombe. We walked on along the ridge way until we reached a major crossroad of paths, and here we turned right and took the byway down through the conifers towards Minehead.
The track became a metalled road, and suddenly we were confronted with Minehead and the main A39. We crossed this and dived into a path opposite which took us between the close-tiled bungalows and villas towards the seafront. Some of the quiet streets have thatched cottages, and one a little antique shop, with a handsome china pig and crockery with hunting scenes in the window, its owner drowsing away the morning in the hope of custom finding its way there somehow. I had hoped that we almost might skirt the centre of the town, but our quiet way inevitably tipped us out into the crowded main street. There was no other way forward but, as soon as it was possible, we escaped into a road to our left which led past the ornamental Blenheim Gardens and finally to the esplanade.
Seaside resorts have a melancholy fascination for me, after spending five years in the 1950’s at a preparatory school at Burnham-on-Sea, although they are seen at their best in mid-winter with the waves crashing on a deserted beach and the arcades boarded up and abandoned. Minehead on the first day of the school holidays seemed a pretty subdued example of the genre, although it boasted a crazy-golf course and the usual ghastly amusement arcade.

Low tide didn’t help to enliven the scene.

The tides in the Bristol Channel are legendary, rising and falling by quite staggering degrees. In the far distance a little band of hope trailed off across the sands in pursuit of the elusive water while the majority of the visitors clung nearer to the delights of the town.
The glory of Minehead, of course, is the Butlins holiday camp, opened in 1962. Its magnificence is celebrated by the almost oriental splendour of the entrance, visible for miles from the hills above the town, far white pavilions of something or other. We tried for a photograph which would combine this with Sir Billy Butlins’s great discovery, which set him on the road to untold riches in the late 1920’s – dodgem cars. The Great Man not only imported the first dodgem cars from the USA for his amusement parks, but made sure that he secured an exclusive franchise for what remains the best of fairground rides.

We walked on past the Butlins Blue Skies apartment block, a remarkable construction which admits to paying homage to art deco but also recalls the concrete modernism of 1930’s seaside building in places like Brighton and Bexhill. It certainly stands out in comparison to the blocks of flats built between Butlins and the station which only recall the architectural chic of Soviet bloc cities of the 1950’s.
That was enough of Minehead, and we left it without regret via the entrance to the golf club. From there a coastal path took us on a bank above the beach towards Dunster. Soon a wire fence dividing us from the golf course disappeared and was replaced by a succession of white stone posts as we tramped along to an accompaniment of the whoosh and clink of clubs and the whirr of motorised golf caddies.
We had noticed from afar what appeared to be a holiday encampment of some kind, but as we drew closer it turned out to be rows of little wooden chalets drawn up in two lines on a low bluff above the beach. There were more than two hundred of them, half facing the sea and the other half an inland lagoon known as The Hawn. The path took us by these cheery dwellings, their inhabitants out in front of them, reading or just sitting, with washing flapping on the lines.
The Luttrell family of Dunster Castle had a beach hut here, and the chalet village followed just after the Second World War. There is something very 1940’s and 50’s about this place. You can imagine families fifty years ago trailing up the lane towards it from Dunster Station a quarter of a mile away, laden with suitcases, buckets and spades, and copies of Enid Blyton’s “Famous Five”. There is absolutely nothing, and everything, to do here. The same families have owned the chalets for years, and they rarely come on to the market.
Beyond this Shangri La we took the Sea Lane back into Dunster, crossing into the village via a subway under the A39. As we walked up past the church, the carillon of the clock chimed out a tune before the striking the hour of one o’clock. It repeats the feat every four hours, at five and at nine.
We had made an earlier attempt in 2009 to get inside the door of the Stag’s Head but had been frustrated by it being on a Thursday, when eccentrically for a boozer in Exmoor’s most visited village it is closed in the morning. This time, however, on a Saturday there was no problem. The Stag’s Head lays claim to being the oldest pub in Dunster, and is a single, low, curving room with a bar in one corner. It is nicely half-panelled and pleasantly decorated with knickknacks, books, and pictures in bleached lime frames, and the small, cottage windows create a kind of cool twilight.
There were three real beers on offer; Litehouse from the Forge Brewery, Otter Amber, and Exmoor Ale. Always ready to go boldly where we had never drunk before, we chose Litehouse from Hartland, near Bideford. Despite our prejudice against “golden” beers, this was a very good pint, well-kept and deep in flavour. It was Supreme Champion at the Society of Independent Brewers Maltings Festival recently. Several parties were eating lunch, and the shortish menu was attractive and not over-expensive for Dunster. There was an imaginative sandwich menu for less than a fiver.
Even so we did not feel at ease in the “Stags Head”. It was rather like having a drink in a National Trust gift shop, but then most of Dunster has this feeling to it. We elected to have our second pint in an old favourite, the “Foresters Arms”, and check on our old friend, Nelson, the only pub parrot with Tourette’s Syndrome. The last time we had seen Nelson, he had been watching the Tory party conference on the television next to his cage and making appropriately obscene remarks. This morning, however, the television was out of commission and Nelson was sulky and silent, although the barman assured us that earlier he had been in irrepressible form, shrieking “Fuck off!” at the top of his voice at all and sundry. Noting that the pub now served food at lunchtime, after downing a pint of Cotleigh “Harrier”, we prepared to leave disappointed. As we passed through the door, Nelson stirred at last and screamed a final valediction at us, “Wanker!”

Eight Mile Walk from Porlock through Horner Wood to Stoke Pero and back to the Ship Inn

2009-10-28T04:02:00.000-07:00

Horner Wood in autumn is one of the glories of Exmoor. It makes a pleasant place for a stroll from places like Horner or Webbers Post, but we started from Porlock, determined to walk a circuit of the ancient oak woodlands. We walked past the church towards Hawkcombe and, when we reached the cemetery, turned left up a path round its boundary and then turned right into a narrow lane. A little further on a footpath was signposted through a gate for Ley Hill. This we took and started a long, steep climb upwards through woodland with a stream on our left and an old boundary wall on our right. A carpet of split sweet chestnut shells lay amongst the fallen leaves.
The map is a dense mass of paths, but it appeared that we were walking up Ley Combe. Eventually we came out of the trees and, where the track divided, turned to the left, coming out on to the open moorland of Doverhay Down. From here there were grand views over Porlock Bay.

It was a blustery morning, fine and sunny at one moment, and then darkening with sudden showers. A magnificent rainbow arched across the sky above Porlock Bay.

A grassy track took us onwards and upwards, over a couple of narrow roads, and then it eventually sank towards Horner Wood itself, which we entered on the bridleway known as Flora’s Ride. All the paths through the wood are named after members of the Acland family, which gave it to the National Trust in 1944. Generations of Aclands, whose various branches once owned vast tracts of land on Exmoor, followed the stag hounds, and so what they would have thought of the National Trust’s decision in 1997 to ban hunting on land which the Aclands had given to the Trust in good faith, God only knows.
As the path wound ever downwards, the sunlight scattered itself through the branches of the old oaks.

Eventually we reached the upper reaches Horner Water at the foot of the combe. This we crossed by a footbridge, and then began a steep climb towards Stoke Pero.

On the map the contour lines crowd very closely together, and on the ground it’s a sharp old pull. On levelling out, the path swings to the right out of the wood, and then approaches Stoke Pero by a narrow, muddy defile. This issues out into the yard of Church Farm - with the clouds now gathering again looking a dead ringer for Wuthering Heights - and beyond lies the church itself.
At 1013 feet above sea level, Stoke Pero church lays claim to being the highest place of worship in England. With two testing ascents behind us, we wouldn’t quarrel with that. The church has a Saxon saddleback tower and was mentioned in the Domesday Book, but it was considerably restored by the Aclands in the late 1800’s. A donkey called Zulu hauled up the wood required from Porlock twice a day, and is commemorated inside the church in a drawing by Hope Bourne, the Withypool writer.

We retraced our steps into the wood and followed the footpath signed to Cloutsham Ball. There was a tricky moment with a fallen tree but, with a little luck and a compass, we kept on the right track which took us round the upper rim of the wood. There were marvellous views here over the valley through which Horner Water flows and, eventually, back towards Porlock.

Webbers Post, with its parked cars, lay in front of us, but just when it looked as if it was only a step away, the East Water Valley stood in the way. We took a steep path downwards until we reached Horner Water, and then walked with the stream on our right, through increasing numbers of Sunday strollers, down the broad path until we reached Horner village itself. Here we turned left, crossed the pack horse bridge, and followed the bridleway round until it joined the lane which returns to Porlock via Doverhay.
The Ship Inn, known as the “Top Ship” to distinguish it from the “Bottom Ship” at nearby Porlock Weir, can be found at the western end of Porlock’s main street. It is a long, rambling building which dates from the thirteenth century. As you enter from the street, the bar is on your left, a snug little room with a high counter at the far end. Otter, Exmoor Ale, and Exmoor Stag were all on tap and, after an energetic morning, we treated ourselves to two pints each of the divine Stag. At £2.80 a pint, it was cheaper than in some Exmoor hostelries. Not surprisingly on a Sunday morning, the bar was pretty crowded, mainly with local shooting dog fanciers, and so we moved back into a long room opposite which appeared to be an overflow area for the bar and the restaurant.

At the very end of the room my wife spotted something which we have been looking for in a pub for years – a bar billiards table! Forty years ago I spent many happy hours in the Baron Of Beef in Cambridge playing this addictive and frustrating game, as had my wife, not quite so many years ago, when she manned the bar of the Two Brewers in Henley. As I potted my way into a comfortable lead, I mused on Anthony Powell’s analogy in his novel sequence, “A Dance To The Music Time”, between life and bar billiards – when your time runs out, the bar comes down, the potted balls no longer return to be played again, and everything counts double. I was well paid for this bit of Eng Lit smuggery when my opponent deftly sank the red ball behind the black mushroom for the decisive score of eight hundred points. We found a bench in a corner of the bar to enjoy our second pint of Stag. A wood burner stood packed with logs ready for colder days and, next to it, a pile of sweet chestnuts ready for roasting. Food happens elsewhere in the Ship, as we discovered when we poked our noses round to the left as we quitted the bar. Out of sight and out of mind was a large caff, packed with families devouring their lunches on this half-term Sunday.

We fled in panic, and so we can give no accurate information on the Ship’s cuisine.

Ten Mile Walk from Hillsford Bridge to the Hoar Oak Tree and to the Beggars Roost Inn, Barbrook

2009-10-20T11:24:00.000-07:00

The Hoar Oak Tree is one of Exmoor’s most remote landmarks, set deep in a romantic combe on the western boundary of the ancient Royal Forest. It has stood there for a year or two. One version fell down in 1658 “with very age and rottenness.” Its replacement, planted four years later, lasted until Boxing Day, 1916. The present one dates from 1917. Its less than impressive progress over the past ninety years ironically reflects the determination of Exmoor flora and fauna to battle on regardless in an often hostile environment. The tree can prove difficult to find. At my first attempt in poor weather I followed the wrong path on Cheriton Ridge, and eventually fell into the bog at Blackpitts. On my second I was walking in thick fog and almost missed it again. At least on this third attempt it was the most beautiful day, with gin-clear skies and the best views ever over the Welsh coast.
We parked in the National Trust car park at Hillsford Bridge, and took the bridleway through Combe Park Wood towards Smallcombe Bridge. The track skirts to the rear of Combe Park House, which boasts a statue of a stag on its lawn, lovely lattice windows, and a small tower, and then the path follows the river through the trees as far as the bridge.

Here we turned left past a cottage, curiously with a large boat docked in its garden, and climbed the steep and broken lane towards Scoresdown. Here you need to ignore the first track on the right, which leads to Sparhanger Cross, and then, just before Cheriton hamlet, take the second which will take you up on to Cheriton Ridge. At least one sign lay broken in the bank. We passed through a couple of gates and then we were out on the open moorland of Cheriton Ridge. Behind us you could see as far as the Welsh Mountains.

You need to steer a middle course here. If you keep too far to the left early, you will find yourself going down into Farley Water, and later you will be led away on the disastrous path which eventually dumped me into Blackpitts bog. On a bright and sunny day the middle way is clear enough, although, when the path begins to level off, be prepared to steer south and somewhat to your right to find the entry to the valley which leads up to Exe Head. The Hoar Oak Tree stands guard at the valley foot in a landscape straight from Tolkien.After the descent from the top of the ridge, the path runs for a couple of hundred yards parallel to the river and then the Hoar Oak Tree is before you, surrounded by a cage of rails.

We passed through the gate and turned to the right down to Hoar Oak Water, which is passable by a narrow ridge of stepping stones. It makes an excellent, if treacherous, vantage point from which to photograph the valley up to Exe Head.We crossed the river and turned right to climb up to Hoaroak Cottage. It would have made a stunning place to live on such a morning, with the sunlight sparkling on the beech-lined Water beneath you. Now the house is sadly decayed, with its corrugated iron roof stooping downwards, although the remains of the kitchen range are still there. A local doctor recalled walking across the moor once a year to treat the cottager for his gout. The patient’s name was Ridd, which he shared with the hero of “Lorna Doone”, John Ridd. A few years ago there were plans for refurbishing the place as a hostel, but obviously nothing came of them.

The path towards Furzehill Common is easy to follow to begin with but, after passing through a gate, as with so many Exmoor paths, it disappears like a wraith. We were soon in difficulties as the marsh-grass tussocks became thicker and the black boggy pools more frequent. We had been led too far to our right and, at a fence line, we plunged along side it until we could see our way on the edge of the farmland above South Furzehill farmhouse. A tidy line of blue blobs on the gateposts signed the way through the cattle pastures. One compensation was being treated to marvellous views over the Bristol Channel as far as the Black Mountains.

After turning left into a narrow lane just below the Roborough Castle Iron Age settlement, we reached a crossroads of paths. We went northwards straight over Lyn Down, and another run of gates took us to a lane next to the entrance to the Lynton public rubbish dump. The welcome inaccessibility of the facility, and the fact that it opens to the public just once a month, should guarantee that no one uses it nor knows of its existence. We walked on to Lyn Cross on the main A39 road, dived into the lane directly opposite, and walked round through West Lynn to emerge again on the A39 at the side of the Beggars Roost Inn. Before we reached the road, we passed a farm which promises walking with alpacas. According to my wife, walking with alpacas is considered in some quarters as therapeutic as swimming with dolphins. As one who shares his views on human frailty with Genghis Khan, I pass. Here, however, are the alpacas.The Beggars Roost was our final pub to visit actually on the Moor, rather than within an Exmoor village. We had kept putting it off as we weren’t convinced that it was a real pub. For most drinkers, the jury would still be out on that one. The Beggars Roost is an annexe to the Manor Hotel. Set in what looks like a converted stone barn, the Beggars Roost is a single, narrow bar with wood panelling. During the high season it has more than one real beer on offer, but in late October there was just one. High Tide comes from the Clearwater Brewery at Torrington, and is a strong, sweetish ale at 4.5% alcohol – “a good bitter for people who don’t really like bitter” was my wife’s pithy assessment.It was very pleasant on such a warm October day, as was the garden in front of the Beggars Roost with a particularly fine tree by the car park.

Two Dutch ladies lunched off baguettes – the management kindly solved their dilemma about which filling to choose by putting one in at one end and another at the other. Another couple had something large with chips, several of which were fed to their pet greyhound. The dog was wearing the sort of harness which controlled me in public places as a toddler. Its straps would have tamed a Rhodesian Ridgeback but greyhounds are the quietest of creatures when not chasing small animals, and this one just footled about in the herbaceous border.
We retraced our steps past the alpacas and took the path towards Lower East Lyn. The grassy lane was bordered by ancient stone-lined banks, and here we enjoyed the treat of the day. In the fields below us there was a large herd of hinds with a magnificent stag. Although the stag continued to stare questioningly towards us, we sat on the bank watching the deer for some twenty minutes. Even when we moved on, the hinds continued to graze and the herd remained in the field until we saw it no more.We passed through Lower and Higher East Lyn farmsteads, and returned to Hillsford Bridge via the path which leads below the Myrtleberry Settlement, with views down to Lynmouth and the sea.

Eight Mile Walk from Dunster to Blue Anchor via Withycombe Hill

2009-10-13T05:57:00.000-07:00

It was the best of October mornings with a chilly sun and the light as clear as cool water. We started from the public car park behind the Foresters Arms, (the blue sign is barely visible as you approach the village from the south,) and walked past thatched cottages and across the mediaeval Gallax Bridge to take the bridleway up through the old woodland towards Bats Castle. The trees here tower above the steep path and, where a broad path curves round to the left, you need to be careful and take the steeper way to the right.

Soon we were on to open moorland and the path took us over the two ramparts into the centre of the Iron Age encampment of Bats Castle.
Here to the north there were stunning views over Dunster towards the Welsh Coast.

To the west we looked towards Dunkery.

The broad path continued through open ground until we reached the trees again at Withycombe Gate. Here there was a somewhat equivocal sign to Withycombe but, after one false start, from the gate we inclined to the right and then after just a few steps took the next path on the left. An old boundary wall was to our left as we emerged again from the forestry and walked along the top of Withycombe Hill.
Eventually the trees fell away to our left and we walked down through open meadowland towards Withycombe. Below us Minehead and the exotic far pavilions of its holiday camp were clearly visible. “In Xanadu did Billy Butlin a stately pleasure dome decree, where Avill the sacred river ran, through caverns measureless man, down to an occasionally sunlit sea.”

The path eventually becomes a farm lane with steep banks on either side, and Withycombe came upon us suddenly.
The church, which had been obscured in dead ground throughout our descent, was both a surprise and a delight. In the bright sunlight the lime-washed walls dazzled.

Inside we found a beautifully carved rood screen. It had been worked by Flemish craftsmen living in Dunster sometime in the 1500’s.

We walked round the church and turned left into the lane which leads out to the main road between Watchet and Minehead. We passed a converted schoolhouse which boasted the original name of “Terms End” and more than one substantial farm. They make a remarkable contrast to some of the battered homesteads on top of the Moor. Here the low and rich flatlands close to the sea grow asparagus and potatoes, not just gorse, bracken and heather.
We successfully diced with the traffic on the A39 at Withycombe Cross before diving into a green lane exactly opposite, marked on the map with the splendid name of “Black Monkey Lane”. I don’t think that this mysterious simian, or anyone else, had been down it for a long while. We wobbled our way uncertainly through the docks, nettles, and long grass, but eventually the track became more open. Where the path began to curve to the right, we passed through a gate on our left, which is weighted by a line to ensure its closure, and then headed straight across a big pasture to the opposite gate towards Marshwood Farm. Ignore the stile on the left of the weighted gate. It leads nowhere.
Marshwood Farm is an imposing if plain building, but with an impressive porch, the stone of which may have come from nearby Cleeve Abbey.

The footpath passes through the middle of the farm and its buildings before it leads you out into the public road. Here we turned right and walked into Blue Anchor over the level crossing of the West Somerset railway.

We turned left on to the beach to walk back to Dunster. There is no actual coastal path here, and the easiest way of going is to walk on the beach itself just above the tide line. Nearer the railway the large, flat pebbles can be difficult to walk over.

As we neared Dunster Beach, we passed the mouth of the River Avill flood defence scheme. The concrete channel stretched away and out of sight and, even on such a lovely morning, seemed oddly threatening and apocalyptic. No doubt feet in Dunster keep all the dryer for it.

Soon we reached Sea Lane End, and we left the beach to walk along the road towards Dunster. A steam engine, all brass and smoke, puffed along the railway through the fields. We crossed the lines and, as we reached the first buildings of the village, we turned left into a footpath which ran along the side of the River Avill. It took us back to the main road at Loxhole Bridge and on into the parkland surrounding Dunster Castle.
The path ended at the top of the main Dunster car park, and we walked through the main street, past the yarn market where a busker in eighteenth century dress was playing an amplified dulcimer. Dunster’s that sort of a place.

We negotiated Exmoor’s only traffic lights and were now in search of our goal, the Stag’s Head, reputedly the oldest pub in Dunster.

It was closed. Thursday lunchtime on a sunny October day in Exmoor’s most popular tourist trap, and it was closed? Words, even the most vulgar, for once failed me.

The Stag’s Head is fortunate indeed to be able to indulge in taking time off on a Thursday during the season. Five Exmoor pubs are advertised for sale at the moment - from which you may draw your own conclusions - including the “Foresters Arms” in which we took refuge for the second time in a week. The beers had changed and, without being asked, the landlord kindly poured us samples of Old Peculier and a new brew, Cotleigh’s Nutcracker. Nutcracker is a good, old-fashioned mild; dark in colour and flavour but light on alcohol at 3.4%. I can remember old gents drinking mild and bitter when I was a lad. Nutcracker made a delicious lunchtime drink.
We took our glasses to the end of the bar, where Nelson, the pub parrot, rules from his roost. We tucked ourselves away in a comfortable corner of dark panelling under a splendid cartoon from the 1950’s depicting the pub’s skittle team.

From his cage Nelson seemed to be watching the news channel on the TV high up in the corner opposite the pool table. Famous politicians at a party conference passed silently across the screen. After a few of his favourite whistles, Nelson made his own apposite comment in a rich West Country accent. “Wanker! he squawked, “Wanker!”

Ten Mile Walk from Nutcombe Bottom to the Foresters Arms, Dunster, via Clicket

2009-10-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

Weird places, woods. One minute you know exactly where you are, and the next you’re completely lost. It’s no wonder that children’s literature is packed with multiple tots lost deep in the forest, constantly waylaid by cross-dressing wolves, or enticed to sample bits of cottages made from doubtful, if not illegal, substances. We hardly endured any major psychological trauma in search of the lost village of Clicket, but one member of the party suffered several critical sense of humour failures while uttering those words well-known to all walkers, “The map must be wrong.”
We parked at the spacious Nutcombe Bottom park off the road between Dunster and Timberscombe. Our intention was to walk south west through the woodland, keeping the road from Nutcombe to Luxborough on our right, until we were in striking distance of the footpath which would take us to Clicket. The trouble with walking through forestry is there are too many paths to choose from, and Sod’s Law decrees more often than not that, the broader and straighter the way, the more likely it is to lead you in the wrong direction. Our chosen path just fizzled out, but we knew that the road was somewhere on our right, and a step or two took us to it.
The woods here are a pleasing mix of trees, especially in late September, and we cut our losses by sticking to the narrow road, meeting only one or two vehicles in the process. After a longish climb we found ourselves walking along the edge of the wood, and we could look down over Timberscombe towards the sea.

The path to Clicket is clearly signposted, and we walked down a farm track, keeping to the left when we came to the farm itself and unhindered by quite the oldest collie dog in the world. As we passed beyond the farm buildings, to our left we saw a remarkable tangle of beech trunks, oddly reminiscent of a Henry Moore sculpture.

The ruins of Clicket can be found at the foot of the valley. There’s not much left of the little community which once numbered six dwellings and thirty inhabitants. Clicket once boasted a mill, but now there is little more than the ruins of a cottage and a little pack-horse bridge. There has been considerable speculation on why the village was abandoned sometime in the late 1800’s, one theory being that it was wiped out by a diphtheria epidemic.

One suspects that the truth is more mundane. Clicket Mill at the bottom of its narrow valley was inaccessible even then, and the grain was brought to it on the back of a donkey. The miller of Clicket obviously didn’t recognise the connection between commercial success and good communications. The real puzzle of Clicket is why they built the mill and the village there in the first place. Water supply on Exmoor is never a problem.

We crossed the river by the little bridge and took the footpath towards Bakers Farm, keeping the water on our left.

The track wound through woodland until it tipped us out into the road again and, when the Beech Tree crossroads was in sight, we turned left off the road and started to climb up to the forestry on Croydon Hill. Here Christmas trees stand in regimented ranks but there are good views to the right over Luxborough and the Brendons.

Soon we reached the open moorland of Withycombe Common. There is a bewildering choice of paths here, but we took the track signposted to Dunster which led past the summit of Black Hill and down past the deliciously named Withycombe Scruffets. There were grand views over the Bristol Channel towards Hinkley Point and then the track passed into old woodland.

We are still not sure where we went wrong. It may well have been where we forded a gated stream and went straight on up a steep bank. We probably should have turned left, to take us as intended to Withycombe Hill Gate. Instead we floundered along on to Withycombe Hill itself and only the use of a compass led us back in the right direction.
At last we found the Gate, and took the footpath down towards Dunster. It led us over the mediaeval Gallox Bridge, a rather more grandiose example than Clicket’s, and then a lane between some attractive cottages brought us down one side of the Foresters Arms.

The Foresters Arms is a long way from the centre of Dunster, and it must be difficult for it to gets its fair share of the tourist pound. It’s a big pub, recently refurbished, with plenty of seating for diners, but also all the trimmings of a “local”; darts board, pool table, and skittle alley.

There was a choice of two real beers, either Cotleigh 25 or Theakston’s Old Peculier (sic.) I was tempted by the Theakston’s, which had come a long way from Masham in North Yorkshire, but that dark and heavy old porter didn’t seem the thirst quencher which the occasion required. Cotleigh 25 is one of those golden beers which make a good lunchtime drink, but I wouldn’t fancy them in the evening. The brewery originally produced it as a celebration of twenty five years in the business, but it proved such a success that it was kept on as a permanent brand. It was created to appeal “to younger consumers” – oh dear – but it’s pretty good for all that. It wouldn’t hurt to be lower in alcohol than its 4%.
The Foresters helped us choose by providing a couple of free tasters in shot glasses, a courtesy which is always much appreciated. The Rock House at Dulverton and the Staghunters at Brendon are two more obliging hostelries which have done this for us recently. The Foresters had that slightly unworldly ambience that pubs tend towards on a Tuesday lunchtime in late September. Everyone seems slightly larger than life, as if you had stumbled on to the set of a television soap opera. Chief amongst the Foresters’ cast was that popular pub standby, the garrulous Irishman. His flight of verbal fancy so winged him away that the girl behind the bar was obliged to pull him up with, “Are you going to stand there all day talking or are you going to order a drink?” I have no idea what we had said which had attracted his interest, but suddenly he was there before us, like some Celtic genii, listing all the showbiz “artistes” which he particularly admired and had travelled the world to see in person...Shirley Bassey, Tom Jones and “ I tell ye the greatest of them all” – long pause for dramatic effect – “Barry Manilow.” It was probably our total indifference to the talents of the Brooklyn cantor that encouraged him to retreat to his table where thereafter he sat with his wife in rigid silence. Any quiet moments in the Foresters are filled by the pub parrot, who flaps and whistles away near the television set above the pool table. Only in this part of the world would a pub TV be tuned into the Countryside & Equestrian channel, showing a documentary about the Cheshire Draghounds. A blackboard proclaimed that there was no food that lunchtime. The pub website, the bar furniture, and a fully laid-up dining room glimpsed in the recesses of the building, would imply that this famine could be only temporary.
It should have been a couple of miles back to the car park at Nutcombe Bottom but we managed to make a trek of it. After retracing our steps across Gallax Bridge, we set off into forestry again where a wide track, guarded by a wooden bear, seduced from the true way and we landed up at the wrong end of Kings Hedge Coppice.

For the second time that day, the compass saved us.

Nine Mile Walk from Withypool to the Rock House Inn, Dulverton, via Hawkridge

2009-09-22T07:34:00.000-07:00

This is not a circular walk. To return to the starting point entails catching the 401 bus, which travels between Bampton and Lynmouth twice a day, on Wednesdays and Sundays only, from 29th July to the 27th September

This is the antithesis of the walk from Withypool to Dulverton, found elsewhere on this site. Then we had walked to Tarr Steps along the Barle valley before taking to the heights of the Ashway road to Marsh Bridge. This time we kept above the river past Hawkridge until we joined the Barle where it meets the Danesbrook at Castle Bridge. If you are a dedicated valley walker, you would be best advised to walk to Tarr Steps along the valley before crossing the river and climbing up to Hawkridge via the track to Parsonage Farm. You can’t keep with the river all the way from Withypool to Dulverton, but this would allow you to do so as much as possible.
We took the road out of Withypool which passes the village hall on the left. It’s a stiff climb, but it soon levels out before arriving at the cattle grid at Greystone Gate. The view to the left was of Winsford Hill, darkening in a piercing north easterly wind.

If you fancy climbing Withypool Hill and finding the Stone Circle, as many walkers do, take the sheep path on the right almost opposite to the cattle grid and lane which leads down to Batsom Farm. When you reach the top of the Hill, to find the Circle, take the path which runs almost due south. Don’t expect an Exmoor Stonehenge or Avebury. If you blink, you’ll miss the stones lying flat in the heather.
We kept on the road from Greystone Gate until over the bridge at Westwater Farm and then turned left through a gate into the bridle way. The next gate on the track is straight ahead of you, from which we took the path which winds up through ragged gorse and thorn trees. The sun broke through as we climbed, rewarding us with a splendid view back to Withypool Hill.

The track led straight on through several fields before turning sharp right, as it meets a path coming up from Tarr Steps. A couple of gates takes you into the buildings of Parsonage Farm, and then the farm lane leads you down and then up to a point where various paths diverge at the foot of the road coming down from Tarr Post. We went straight on through the gate to take the path to Hawkridge, which provided views over towards Ashway Farm as we approached the village.

We walked down into the village, past the workshop of Tom Lock, who makes all sorts of wondrous artefacts from antlers, to the little church, which still holds weekly services. Ernest Bawden, the legendary huntsman of the Devon & Somerset Staghounds, is buried in the churchyard. Despite its tiny size, Hawkridge also boasts a splendidly appointed village hall.

Leaving the church on our right, we took the track which leads straight on and out on to Hawkridge Ridge. To begin with the track is sheltered by banks and beech hedges but, when it opens out, there is a grand view towards Zeals Farm with Anstey Common towering above it.

A little further on, the vista of the Barle valley opens before you.

The track descends into old woodland, and now both the Barle on your left and the Danesbrook on your right are within hearing. The two rivers meet at Castle Bridge.

After crossing the bridge, the broad path stays with the river, past New Invention House, until Marsh Bridge.

We could have continued to Dulverton as we had done previously, by following the riverside path which begins at Kennel Farm. For the sake of change, we crossed the Dulverton-Winsford Hill road and took the bridle way up through the woods. A stiff climb takes you up to the top of Looseall Wood where we turned right. A good path between banks then takes you into Dulverton where you emerge by the side of the church.

We turned left up the hill to find the Rock House Inn. The “Rock’s” position on the fringe of Dulverton makes it a very different pub to the “Bridge” or “Woods”. Where the “Bridge” looks towards visitors, and “Woods” is Exmoor chic, the “Rock” is the town pub, with a darts board, a pool table, and looped background music. It’s none the worse for any of that, even the music as they had the 60’s CD in the machine. It has the best selection of real beers in town, expertly kept. This lunchtime there were four on tap; Cotleigh’s Barn Owl, Avocet from the Exeter Brewery, Taunton’s Phoenix, and Sharp’s Doom Bar. My wife immediately plumped for the Barn Owl, an old favourite but, in the interests of research, I started on the Avocet. I never shall prefer the fashionable light golden beers to a traditional bitter, but Avocet was a refreshing and pleasant pint after a walk in the sun. It weighed in at 3.9%, which gave it the call above the Phoenix’s 3.6%. I wasn’t driving, after all. No-one present was much interested in eating, but the Rock has a full menu, and chalked up for lunch you could have an imaginative choice of toasted sandwiches, including roast pork and stuffing, and beef and onion, all at £2.95, or a jalfrezi curry with rice or chips – that’s what I call a choice – at £4.95. The beer wasn’t dear for this part of the world, either. Barn Owl was £2.60 and the Avocet £2.20.

The Rock is the HQ of the annual Bolving Contest. The “bolving” of a red deer stag during the autumn rut is the roaring which he makes to keep other stags away from his girls. The competition, which started in the Rock as a private bet between two locals, involves the competitors in gathering at dusk near Marsh Bridge and bellowing in turn to induce nearby stags to answer them back. The best bolver gets a shield. It’s a kind of Exmoor version of karaoke. We didn’t realise at the time that in the pub that morning were such bolving notables as judge Chinner Kingdom and previous winner Elvis Afanasenko. My thanks to Elvis for recommending the Avocet, and to Chinner for remembering who sang the ghastly “Pushbike Song” which swam to the surface on the loop – Mungo Jerry, God rot them. There was no bolving in the pub that morning, although I did win the easiest £10 in my life – from my wife who bet that “Yellow River” was trilled originally by Credence Clearwater Revival. John Fogerty would have turned in his grave, if he wasn’t still alive and playing. Before you rush to Google, this bit of bubblegum singalong tosh was performed by Christie.
The bus whisked us away from the car park by the river at bang-on 3.30 pm. Let us hope that the service does not fall victim to public expenditure cuts in 2010.

Eight Mile Walk from Allerford to the Royal Oak at Porlock via Selworthy

2009-09-19T03:33:00.000-07:00

Allerford is a picture-postcard village, particularly on a gloriously sunny September morning. Its cottages and pack-horse bridge would grace the lid of the proverbial chocolate box in a way that the villages of the Exmoor interior, like Exford or Withypool, never could. There is always plenty of room in the village car park, opposite the rural life museum.
We walked back through the village and turned left over the pack horse bridge. The lane quickly dwindled into a narrowish track, bordered by ivy and briar covered banks, but the footing is solid, and this would make a good walk in any season. Above us to the north was thick woodland, and to the right there were far-reaching views over Horner woods and Dunkery.

We ignored the track which promised to take us straight to Selworthy Beacon, and pressed on into Selworthy village itself to see its landmark church. Painted white and standing on an eminence, the church can be seen for miles from the south. Not surprisingly, therefore, it is much visited, and the National Trust owns the village and large hunks of the surrounding country. Sir Thomas Acland, once the landowner, built most of the cottages in the 1820’s to form a “model” village, but now that they have stood for almost two centuries, you would have to be some kind of carping Marxist to dismiss them as just a paternalistic fake.

The church’s airy interior is marked by a splendid gallery into which, sadly, the general public are prohibited from ascending. A lengthy Roll of Honour generously includes those parishioners whom God permitted to return, as well as those He didn’t, although a former rector must have spent many hours pondering on the irony that his son fell in the South African War in some dusty dorp on the veldt with the name of Bethlehem.

The track up Selworthy Combe starts just on the western side of the church. It makes a pleasant climb through ancient woodland, with a stream splashing through the floor of the combe, until the path divides. Here we turned right and soon emerged on to open moorland. When you reach the road which crosses North Hill from Minehead, you need to bear left, and not take the metalled lane straight ahead. The track then takes you up to Selworthy Beacon, from which there are grand views to the south.

We followed the Coastal Path onwards towards the sea, meeting more walkers than you would normally expect in a month of bank holiday Sundays. The reason probably is the handy proximity of the car park and view point at the terminus of the “Hill Road” which comes over from Minehead. The sea was soon below us and, beyond, the Welsh coast, crystal clear in the north easterly breeze. As we picked our way down steep and stony Hurlstone Combe, the cliffs beyond Porlock Weir, and then Porlock beach itself, swung into view.

At Hurlstone Point we turned left and the path took us through woodland and over a foot bridge into Bossington village. The road winds round towards Porlock and at a sharp left hand turn we went straight on where it was signed “No Through Road” to pick up the Coastal Path again. Here it is a wide, grassy, lane between high banks covered with brambles. Exmoor can be a desert for dedicated blackberry pickers like ourselves as the altitude, and the carefully tended beech hedges, mean that briar patches are few and far between. The rotten weather of the past two summers hasn’t helped, either. Here, however, at sea level, there was an abundance of ripe fruit which provided rich pickings on our return from Porlock.
It is best to keep to the Coastal Path until you reach the top of Sparkhayes Lane before turning left into Porlock. If you take an earlier turn, you will land up in a maze of social housing projects on the eastern fringe of the village. We walked up Sparkhayes Lane until we reached the main street, and turned left into the Royal Oak.

The Royal Oak has claimed to be “the only pub in Porlock,” something which “The Ship” at least would feel entitled to dispute. The thrust of some lively internet exchanges between Porlock drinkers appears to be that “The Ship”, known as the “Top Ship” to distinguish it from the “Bottom Ship” at nearby Porlock Weir, is more of a hotel, and only fit for people “over sixty five.” With just three years to go before I can “go down the post office” as some pensioners put it, I can see their point.
The “Royal Oak” is undeniably a pub. Locals were sitting at the bar holding a lengthy conference about association football, and at the far end of the extensive room there was the hallowed collection of fruit machines, pool table, and jukebox, the sine qua non of any self-respecting boozer. None were in use. Out the back there is a skittle alley.
Makers of industrial beers and lagers appear to be competing to create post-modernist beer taps of remarkable size. They are so tall that a careless slip on a wet floor might find you impaled on one like a hooked fish. The surprises among the real beers were Adnams Explorer and Courage Best. As a sort of Bristolian, I have a sentimental attachment to Courage beer. I know that it is now brewed in Reading, or even in Yorkshire, wherever that is, but I can still remember the thick malty cloud which hung over Bristol on a Monday morning when they were brewing in what was the old Georges brewery. I had a pint of Courage, and my wife went for fashionable Adnams. I had called it right as the Adnams, although statistically stronger, failed “to punch its weight” as Sheila summed it up in a favoured family phrase. Indeed, the Adnams was a curiously feeble lemon colour, suspiciously like the dreaded lager, and a far cry from the manly bitters which made the name of the Suffolk coast brewery. The Courage was a good, honest pint, the sort of thing no one would be ashamed to be seen drinking, from Portishead to Peasedown.
You can eat as well as drink at the “Royal Oak”. There were three “specials” chalked up, but I expect that the “caff” food is the most popular on the menu. You can even get an all-day breakfast if you like which includes, miracle of miracles, the ultimate constituent of that glory of English cuisine – fried bread. Let’s face it; how many of us would choose to go to the gallows, or face the revolutionary firing squad, after a plate of lemon cucumber tofu salad? The diners that lunchtime, however, didn’t look exactly as if they were carrying a torch for the politically incorrect. They sat round the edge of the room, side by side and in pairs as if in charabanc seats, staring morosely at the disputants at the bar. The grey pound had never looked greyer.
We retraced our steps to Bossington, picking blackberries as we went. Half way down Sparkhayes Lane, we spotted at the gate of a camp site a flag of St George, torn in half by the winds. It seemed a ragged but appropriate emblem of our country of today - half-price England. That afternoon at Lords, our national cricket team, clad in its red and blue jimjams, was being humiliated by Australia yet again.

We were behind schedule when we reached Bossington, and headed back through the village with its remarkable tall chimney stacks down the lane to Allerford.

If we had had more time, we could have turned into the woods again at West Lynch and walked back past St Agnes Fountain.

Ten Mile Walk from Withypool to Tarr Steps and on to the Bridge Inn at Dulverton

2009-08-09T03:20:00.000-07:00

This is not a circular walk. To return to the starting point entails catching the 401 bus, which travels between Bampton and Lynmouth twice a day, on Wednesdays and Sundays only, from 29th July to the 27th September.

Discounting the dash from the roadside car park to the summit of Dunkery Beacon, Withypool to Tarr Steps is the Blackpool of Exmoor walks, or at least its Weston-super-Mare. On a sunny Wednesday morning in early August the gridlock was hardly on the M5 scale, but the evidence of past heavy traffic was there for all to see. In the heavy rains of July the path in places had been turned into a sucking morass by the splatter of passing feet. This riverside walk, however, is a lovely one, and is easily accessible, either from Withypool where the car park is free, or from Tarr Steps where it is not. For refreshments, Withypool boasts the “Royal Oak” as well as its famous tea room, and at the other end you can choose between the sophistication of the Tarr Farm Hotel and the ice cream kiosk.
We left Withypool village by taking the road in front of the “Royal Oak” and climbing some hundred yards up the steep hill which leads to Comers Cross. First you see the stile on the left which would take you towards to Exford and then, just a few yards further on, the stile to Tarr Steps is suddenly visible on the right hand side of the road. The path gives a good view back towards the village as well as over Kings Farm, a very smart and comfortable B&B.

The path here in wet weather can be greasy and fairly tricky, but soon enough you drop down to the level of the river Barle and begin to walk along its banks.
This path is now the only easy access to the walk. Sadly the handy stepping stones below South Hill Farm were put out of commission by a fallen tree over a year ago, and the depth of the water would deter all but the most adventurous from trying the ford except, of course, on a horse. The Exmoor National Park authority shows no signs of any intention of clearing the tree away. “Outraged of Withypool” has already written a letter of complaint. Please feel free to do so yourself.
No one would wish to compose mentally letters of complaint to a quasi-government bureaucracy while walking by the side of the Barle. The rushing sound of the river is always with you. After crossing three wide meadows, the path climbs through a wood of old oaks with the water far below you. When you emerge, you are perched high above a big sheep pasture. Look carefully across the river into the bracken below the woods on the opposite bank. We recently spotted a magnificent stag here.

The wired-in cover on your left is part of the furniture of an important shoot. In September you would find it difficult to move without treading on a pheasant.
It is best to keep to the outside of the pasture and enjoy the nearness of the river. At the end of this huge field, the path again enters woodland. The going for the next couple of miles is poor after wet weather. You find yourself dotting from side to side to avoid the dirtiest bits, and it’s not the place for trainers, which some people like to affect on this route. The nearer to Tarr Steps you come, the better the path again. A footbridge allows you to cross the river and walk the last half mile on the other bank if you prefer. If you stick to the left hand side of the river, the woodland suddenly ceases and opens into a wide grassy walk which leads to the Steps themselves.No one seems to know how old the ancient clapper bridge may be; six hundred years, a thousand years, two thousand years? Take your pick. It’s a magical place even so. Tarr Farm Hotel high above the Steps was a humble farmhouse tearoom when we knew it first thirty years ago. Now it is a luxury establishment, much frequented by shooting parties in the autumn and winter, with a finesse of cuisine far beyond our rustic tastes. There are plenty of tables on the terrace overlooking the river where you could enjoy a coffee, a drink, or a meal.

We passed over the footbridge by the ice-cream kiosk and took the bridleway upwards towards Ashway Farm. At first the river is still there below you, but then the path turns away from it and, after you have passed the farm, it becomes a metalled lane. Far below is Three Rivers, where stags hunted up from Marsh Bridge often turn and go over the top towards Molland Moor.

This road winds up and down, quite steeply in places, towards Dulverton. We had hoped to escape from it, down to the river again but, as the map shows, there are no paths leading to it. If you want to walk the Barle between Tarr and Dulverton, you need to be on the other bank. This is only accessible by walking from Tarr to Hawkridge, along the Hawkridge Ridge, and then down to the river again at Castle Bridge where the Barle is joined by the Danesbrook. From there you can follow the path as far as Marsh Bridge. We marched on from Ashway to Ashwick, past Mounsey Farm where the celebrated huntsman, Captain Ronnie Wallace, lived when Master of the Exmoor. He was known to some as “God”, making him, I suppose, a sort of Eric Clapton of foxhunting.
Eventually we passed Draydon Farm and came down to Marsh Bridge, or bridges to be exact.

Here we crossed the imposing iron bridge and climbed the lane up to Kennel Farm where we were able to get off the road at last. Signs on the road had warned us that the riverside path was closed and, sure enough, where paths diverged, there was a barricade. Apparently there had been a landslip. We, however, were determined to be near the river. What’s the point of a second childhood if it can’t be a naughty second childhood? We clambered over the barrier and pressed on regardless. Well, the authority, whichever it might be, had a point. Only a narrow path remained, and even that will soon be in the river if bolshy walkers keep on ignoring the signs. But signs, don’t you get fed up with them? This is one that they cooked up later.

The huge black hand, the gaping shouting mouth - doesn’t it just make any self-respecting child want to climb them?
The path gives a splendid view of Dulverton as you near the town.

The pub stands on the far side of the old stone bridge at the entrance to the main car park. The Bridge has just one cottagey room but there are numbers of tables outside, each with a substantial umbrella to ward off the elements. There were three cask beers on offer; Exmoor Gold and Ale as well as Otter Bitter.

The Bridge is well-known for its food, and it had certainly pulled a big crowd that lunchtime. Although there are the usual staples of homemade soup and filled baguettes and sandwiches, at the usual prices, its menu is just slightly different from the Exmoor mainstream. The Bridge burger would give that pantomime villain of fast food a really good name with its home minced beef and red onion relish. There are homemade pizzas too. Unlike some pubs, it doesn’t rely on most of its customers ordering steak and chips, which is probably reflected in its price of £13.95.
You can drink and eat your lunch and still have plenty of time to catch the bus at 3.30. Or you can go into the Lorna Doone Stores for some milk, bump into an old friend, and be driven back to Withypool in style, as we were.

Ten Mile Walk from Hawkcombe Head to the Ship Inn, Porlock Weir, via Porlock Marsh

2009-08-02T08:15:00.000-07:00

This walk has a little of everything – bracken and heather moorland, a beautiful wooded river valley, a salt marsh, and finally a climb from sea level to fourteen hundred feet in fewer than three miles. The going to begin with, however, couldn’t have been easier as the narrow path from Hawkcombe Head, marked by the remains of a broken signpost, dives off between the heather and bracken.
Soon the coast and the sea appear, framed by the edges of the combe, and the path climbs down into ancient oak woodland.

It follows the river, and so there is no chance of missing your way. Even after the recent heavy rain, the fords were easy to cross and, where there was deeper water, we found handy footbridges.

The woods are a haunt of the wild pony herds, especially lower down the valley where there are riverside pastures. The path eventually comes out of the woods and into a lane bordered by pleasant cottages. If one called “The Peep-Out” is a typical Exmoor hideaway, with the river opposite the house falling over a succession of steep steps, another further on is not. Indeed, anyone who has been frustrated by the notorious rigour of the Exmoor National Park planning office may take comfort from this particular edifice. The setting is magical with the river flowing through the garden. The pedigree of the house, however, complete with a black and white mosaic approach, is by Walt Disney out of Ludwig of Bavaria. Ambitious Exmoor property developers will take comfort from its singular architecture.

Further on the charm of Hawkcombe becomes more conventional as the lane follows the river. The climate here seems positively tropical compared with the head of the valley. Flowers are everywhere, and in one cottage garden a waterfall cascaded between luxuriant hydrangeas.

Hawkcombe seamlessly becomes Porlock, and soon the lane tips you out into the Porlock tourists know so well with its winding high street and lethal traffic. We crossed the road and, turning right, soon came to the entry into Sparkhayes Lane which takes you away from the village and out towards the sea.

When we reached the foreshore, we turned left on to the coastal path which took us across Porlock Marsh towards Porlock Weir. On our right loomed the mass of Bossington Hill. In 1942 a Liberator bomber, hopelessly lost in dreadful flying conditions after a U-boat patrol in the Bay of Biscay, clipped the edge of the hill and crashed into the marsh. Only one member of the crew survived. You will find their memorial at the side of the path.

The grassy path also takes you past the remnants of a submarine forest. The shingle bank is deteriorating in places, and a decision has been taken to allow the sea to go where it wilt for the time being. Eventually the path disappears, and the going for the last few hundred yards is over the shingle before some steps take you onto the road just outside Porlock Weir.

Porlock Weir, even on a greyish day, is a nice spot with its backdrop of wooded hills and its tiny harbour. If you cross the lock gates, you come to a rank of thatched cottages called Gibraltar perched on top of the shingle. It must be some experience to sit there by your fireside in a winter storm, listening to the sea crashing on the shore within yards of your home. The “Anchor Hotel” closed in a hurry – the ghostly dining room tables are still covered by their table cloths – but the Ship Inn next door is very much in business. The bar is a long, narrow room with low black beams, although there are a considerable number of tables outside facing the water where most punters choose to sit. There were four cask ales available, together with the usual industrial concoctions and a remarkable series of taps which distributed draught wine by grape variety; cabernet sauvignon, merlot, chardonnay-semillon, and so forth. Living as we do in a complete backwater, this was a magical emanation of vinous progress. What next? Taps, perhaps, which spurted particular vineyards, Chateaux Petrus or Lafitte, perhaps?

Sadly, I didn’t see them in use, and we chose to drink Cotleigh Harrier. Typically, when we are all ready to taste a brew new to us, the barrel gave out as our pints were being poured. We switched to Otter, which is a strongish bitter with good, typical colour. It also came in the brewery’s charming glasses with its standing otter on the side. Meanwhile the lady behind the bar was pumping bravely at the new barrel of Harrier and so, just as we drained the Otter, we were able to move on to our original choice. Harrier is a modern version of the “boy’s bitter” I used to drink as a youth. You would have drowned in it before you were incapable. Even so Harrier is an excellent beer to choose at lunchtime. Despite its low alcohol strength of 3.5% and its lemony colour, it bursts with flavour. The brewery claims that it appeals to the “more modern, health-conscious, drinker.” Well, that recommendation should kill it dead if nothing else does but, despite that ghastly bit of copy-writing, we liked the beer.
The Ship serves plenty of grub at reasonable prices. The menu comes on one of those ugly laminated cards, but I don’t expect that it’s felt necessary to change it too often. The Ship knows what the tourist trade likes and gives it to them. That marker of pub grub prices, the baguette, comes in at around a fiver, and there is a wide selection of popular fillings. You can have them all in sandwiches if you prefer, something of a rarity in some pubs these days, and welcome to those who find eating a baguette as tiring as a visit to a dental hygienist. We also approved of the pub’s offer of all its main courses in small and large portions, suitably priced; something others would do well to imitate.
We eventually accepted the inevitable and set off to climb to Pitcombe Head. We walked up past the Porlock posh noshery, “Andrews On The Weir”, (lunch a reasonable £10 for two courses,) and turned right towards Worthy tollhouse. After only a short way a narrow path started upwards to our left, and we began to climb. It’s a steep haul, and I soon found myself thinking of President Sarkozy of France, a mere sprog compared with a bus card holder like myself, collapsing while jogging a few days previously. I consoled myself by remembering that I wasn’t married to Carla Bruni, either, and eventually the track became wider and the gradient more tolerable as we approached the toll road above Yearnor Mill.
After a few yards on the road, we turned up the no-through road towards Pitt Farm, where a team of builders was refurbishing the old house and buildings. Behind the farm we turned left, and then we followed a broad track up through forestry until we reached the main Porlock-Lynmouth road opposite the old AA box.

It stands redundant, a reminder of a more gracious period of motoring when AA men rode to the rescue on motor cycles with sidecars, dressed in khaki uniforms like despatch riders of the Great War, deferentially saluting drivers like my father who sported the chrome and yellow AA badge on the radiator grille of their Morris Minor shooting brakes. We crossed the road and passed a lovely mare and her foal as we walked from Pitcombe Head along the bridleway back to our truck.

Ten Mile Walk From Dunkery Gate via Dunkery Beacon to the Rest & Be Thankful, Wheddon Cross

2009-07-29T07:17:00.000-07:00

This is a walk which punches well above its weight. We had to measure it twice to convince ourselves that it wasn’t much further than the map tried to persuade us. The only answer to the conundrum must be that the various steep ascents and descents involved slow one’s normal rate of progress. There was no problem in parking at Dunkery Gate, even though this was a fine Saturday morning in late July. Anecdotal experience has convinced me for many years that leisure experts consistently overestimate the enthusiasm of the British public for hiking over the moors. What the BP wants are views accessible by road and toilet blocks.

The broad path to Dunkery Beacon starts just above the Gate, and in no time at all you are on the summit. Anyone who does an Exmoor pub quiz needs to know that this is the highest point on Exmoor, indeed the highest point in Somerset, at 1703 feet high.

The views can vary between the magnificent and the impenetrable. On this morning the air was not as clear as it can be, but the compensation was some marvellous cloud scapes above the Bristol Channel looking towards the Welsh coast.

We turned down the well-worn path which carries most of the human traffic between the road and the Beacon, passing the popular car parks and heading downwards towards Wootton Courtenay. This is a steepish track, with clusters of the loose, rough stone typical of the Dunkery area. Still, it’s easier going down than up as hard experience has taught us. See our walk to Wootton Courtenay and Timberscombe. There were good views over the sea, and ponies too, as we headed downwards with the oddly roofed tower of Wootton Courtenay church in the distance.

Just before the track descends into woodland at Brockwell, another path forks away to the right, back uphill through the bracken. It is signposted as “Mick’s Path” and to “Span Gate”. This we followed upwards until we turned downwards into Hanny Combe, crossing a stream, with the woodland of Elsworthy Allotment to our left. It’s important next to stick to the ascending moorland path, following signs to “Span Gate”. As we made our way between the bracken, there was a sudden rustle to our left as a hind jumped up and plunged downwards towards the cover of Spangate Grove.

We eventually climbed to what was clearly Spangate, with a four-way signpost, one of whose arms pointed to Wheddon Cross in rather cavalier fashion through an impenetrable clump of bulrushes. We skirted this to the left and followed the edge of the moor until we reached an inviting gate, with thick wedges of woodland below away to the south which appeared to block the way to Wheddon Cross. The partnership then had a brisk exchange of cartographical theories, but we finally kept to the side of the moor and were rewarded with another gate, duly signed to Wheddon Cross. The signpost is easy to miss as it is stuck up on top of a high bank to your left for some reason.

The path takes you into woodland just at the point where the track from the first, contentious, gate joins you from the left! This is rated as a bridleway, but it would be some horse which willingly negotiated the steep and narrow defile which leads you down to the River Avill. The path then follows the river until you start climbing again, and then cross a narrow lane into Little Quarme Wood. This is a steep haul until you reach the asphalt drive of the Raleigh Hotel, at the gates of which a path to your right takes you round the back of Wheddon Cross cattle market and on to the main road from Exford. From there it’s just a short walk into the settlement itself.

Wheddon Cross couldn’t help but be an important Exmoor centre with the two main moorland roads meeting here. There is a garage and shop, guest houses, the market, and, of course, a substantial hostelry, “The Rest & Be Thankful”. The present owners have spent a tidy sum on it, and it now looks very smart, and is as much a hotel as just a pub. The bar area is long and narrowish. One end was laid up for lunches, and the far end is a “public” with pool table, flashing fruit machines, and jukebox. Geographically and culturally in the middle, there were a couple of low, leather sofas where we established ourselves. There were three cask ales on offer, and we chose Sharp’s “Doom Bar”. The lady behind the bar was having trouble with the pump, which she was pulling with all the desperation of a sailor on a sinking ship. The condition of the pint, however, looked excellent, but I found the flavour on the flabby side. My wife enjoyed hers, and had seconds, but I switched to the ever-reliable Exmoor Ale. The hotel end of the bar was busy with lunches, and the menu looked good value. An 8oz rump steak with all the trimmings was just short of £10, and cod and chips was landed at £6.75. Baguettes were £5.75. It was just what you would expect in an Exmoor pub firmly placed athwart the tourist track.
We walked across the playing field which, like the village hall, is very much on the grand side, considering the size of the village. The public conveniences are decorated with some remarkable murals, as if some rural Banksy, working in mosaic, had passed this way.

The path to Luckwell Bridge is easily found behind them. It’s a pleasant enough walk, and you come into the tiny hamlet near to its eponymous bridge. Luckwell Bridge is one of those places which obviously has seen busier times. We passed “The Old Chapel”, “The Old Shop”, “The Old Inn”, and “The Old Forge”. We crossed the main Exford-Wheddon Cross road, and took the steep track known as “Long Lane”, a wet and dank tunnel which improves as you climb towards Dunkery Gate. If we did this walk again, we would probably seek to find some way of returning via Blagdon and Mansley woods.

As we reached the road just below the Gate, we felt the first inevitable spots of rain. In the twenty five days of July to date, there had been just two dry days on the Moor.

Nine Mile Walk from Kennisham Hill to Croydon Hill and the Royal Oak at Luxborough

2009-07-19T11:17:00.000-07:00

We shouldn’t have bothered. The forecast was dire but, after a fortnight or more of the weather euphemistically known as “changeable”, we were willing to chance that the rain might hold off for an extra hour or two. We parked at the picnic site on the eastern end of Kennisham Hill and set off, like the Start-Rite kids on their golden pathway, along a broad straight track between conifer plantations towards the wireless station at the far end of the wood.
All walking addicts should be aware that the way on a map often looks very different on the ground. Forestry can be very misleading with its seductively straight and even tracks and, when we reached the edge of the trees, we turned right and headed cheerfully downhill. The further we walked, the more our unease grew as we seemed to be swinging away from our true bearing and, eventually, we took the unwelcome but inevitable step of turning round and climbing back to where we had made our turn. What mugs we were. The map showed clearly that the path was beyond the boundary of the trees and, if we had walked but a few more steps, we would have seen the signpost neatly obscured by a thicket of bracken.
We passed through a gate out of the plantation, and turned right downhill to walk through grass meadows still soaked by previous rains. The flies had been persistent but tolerable in the forestry, but now they buzzed around our heads in thick clouds worthy of the Australian outback.
There is probably a moralistic ratio in walking, in that the more appealing a track appears, the more likely it is to be in the wrong direction. When we reached a point where a signpost pointed cheerily to the right for Luxborough, it was quite obvious that our way to Churchtown, unsigned, was through a dense patch of nettles into a gloomy tunnel of beech. It was one of those ways which vary between loose rubble and slick stone, and we slid and crunched our way downwards until we plunged into the open again with the hamlet and the church below us.

The correct path eventually eluded us for some reason, but there was no problem in getting out of the fields above Westcott Farm, and crossing the ford to reach the lane. Here, however, was another of those crises of uncertainty which walkers habitually are obliged to weather. On the map the bridle path to Croydon Hill shot straight across the lane. The signpost, however, pointed equivocally towards an inpenetrable steep bank and hedge. If the map was correct, the way led through the firmly gated garden of a neat cottage. There was not a single reassuring blue blob of paint to be seen. Nothing could have looked less like a public bridleway. The rain began to spot down, and disaster threatened. Fortunately a lady issued out of the cottage at this very moment. Yes, there was a bridle path. Yes, we were welcome to go through the gates and make our way up across the neatly mown grass. No, very few horses ever came that way, but some walkers. At the top of her domain there was even a little bench for their use.
Then we found ourselves suddenly back in forestry. We took the track which promised to lead to Dunster and walked uphill between tedious squares of Christmas trees. The rain now became more insistent, and by the time we had reached the top of the hill, it was a steady downpour. The plan was to walk round the open circle of Withycombe Common but, not only were we greeted by the full force of the rain as we emerged from the trees, we were mugged by great clouds of flies.
We cut our losses and fled downhill towards Luxborough and the comforts of the Royal Oak. By the time we neared the edge of the dripping trees with their scanty protection, the rain was streaming down. We stood in the lane, hopping from one surviving dry patch to another, there to cower beneath the densest available foliage until almost run down by the postman. When the deluge eased somewhat, we made a final push towards the pub past the painted stone cottages of this charming village.
If you are a walker, a pub is often approached with some sense of trepidation. Has it closed down? Is it open? Will you be greeted with signs demanding that you remove at least your boots, if not more intimate bits of your attire. My face must have conveyed all these reservations as I pushed open the old wooden door. From behind the bar, bang opposite the entrance, the landlady’s cheery greeting came, “Come on in and drip over here.”

The bar of the Royal Oak is a good place to sit and drip onto its ancient flagstones. On the left there is a lovely old settle, piled high with the day’s newspapers. Old chapel pews provide much of the seating. We sat one end of a big, wooden table, near the cheerily lit wood burner on this July day of what the Met Office had predicted as “a barbecue summer.” There is a further room with tables behind the bar, and also a formal dining room. There were four cask bitters on offer; Cotleigh’s Tawny, Exmoor Ale, White Hart from the Taunton Brewery, and Palmer’s IPA. We drank Palmer’s, from Bridport in Dorset, on the principle that we had never tasted it before; and we enjoyed it. Although termed as IPA, it is strictly a best bitter of 4.2%. If anything, it was kept a tad on the cool side. On a Sunday morning a few months later, the Palmers had been replaced by the Cottage Brewery's Boxer Jack, a dark, sweetish brew from near Castle Cary; unusual and worth searching out.
When we had passed by the Royal Oak outside opening hours a year previously, a scan of the menu hung outside had half frightened us to death. It promised haute cuisine of the hautist kind and prices to match. Either there has been a change of policy, or even a change of ownership, as the food on the various blackboards dotted around the bar was much more user-friendly. A bowl of soup was £3.95, a baguette £5.50, and fish and chips, always a reliable signpost to value in Exmoor pubs these days, £7.95. There was a succulent selection of fresh fish dishes around the £15 mark, but then fresh fish is always an expensive treat. On a Thursday lunch time the pub was pretty busy. A large local party occupied the dining room. Four other couples were having lunch, a regular was reading the newspapers, and two elders of the village were working their way through current affairs from immigration to helicopters for Afghanistan. A solitary walker, surrounded by enough kit to storm the north face of the Eiger, ate his way stolidly through pie and veg, ice cream, and two pints of bitter. As he worked away at them, he listened through earphones, which would have graced an SOE operator of the last world war, to an MP3 player the size of a brick. What was it which so engaged his attention? The test match? Wagner’s Ring cycle? He was still there when we left.
We walked past the incredibly luxurious village hall and at a fork took the lane on the right. Soon we turned left off the lane and headed for Chargot Wood, through which we hoped to make our way back to our truck. You pass through what once must have been the parkland of Chargot House, a faintly Palladian villa which you can see above you near to the lane. Below you is a small ornamental lake with landing stages and a boat.

The famous huntsman, Captain Ronnie Wallace, once recalled that, when his family in the 1930’s took Chargot House as a holiday home for the summer, his mother looked out of the window to see his younger brother lying face down in the lake amongst the lilies. She rushed down in the nick of time to save him from drowning.
Any drowning we were doing was in the persistent rain. I wish that I could give precise directions, but we just fiddled our way through the woods, ignoring any sign to Langham, following slavishly any sign to Kennisham, and hoping for the best when, frequently, there was no sign at all. Chargot is a celebrated shoot and walking here in the autumn must be akin to a stroll through the OK Corral on the day the Clanton clan came looking for the Earp brothers.
We eventually regained the dry sanctuary of our truck. A minibus, bearing the internees of a local care home, drew up in the car park. It sat there in the pouring rain, facing the endless stretch of conifers, as a carer distributed cups of coffee from a Thermos. One old lady sat, her cheek pressed against the glass, her eyes open but unseeing, her image fading as the windows slowly misted over. It was time to go home.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks – Nine mile walk from Woody Bay Station to the Fox & Goose at Parracombe via Hunters Inn

2008-09-22T10:44:00.000-07:00

“And, behold, the face of the ground was dry.” Hurrah! The dove had gone missing, Noah had grounded on the top of Mount Ararat, and at last Awful August and Sodden September had relented to give us a few, precious, Indian summer days. We parked in the car park of the Lynton & Barnstaple Railway station above Woody Bay, albeit with some trepidation as a rather threatening padlock and chain dangled from the metal gates. The park was marked, however, with a large P on the ordinance survey map, and there was enough space for a hundred cars, and so, with a sign promising “Train Rides Today” and thus the hope that we would not find ourselves locked in on our return, we set off cheerfully up the A39 to Martinhoe Cross where we turned left into the lane for Martinhoe and Woody Bay.

This was the way the holidaymakers at the turn of the twentieth century would have come to reach the delights of Woody Bay after the railway opened in 1898. A Colonel Benjamin Lake had bought the Bay to develop it into a resort to rival Lynmouth, and there were even plans for a branch line from the station towards the beach. The project was an extravagant failure and the poor Colonel, who was a Kent solicitor, was given twelve years in the pokey for embezzling his clients’ cash to fund his dream.
Just past a bridle path on our left signed to Kemacott, we turned right through a hunting gate into the footpath across Martinhoe Common which led to Slattenslade. We marched straight across the middle of a pasture still soaking with dew and, passing through another hunting gate, crossed a lane into a huge field of cattle and sheep. We kept close to the right hand boundary and after negotiating two 5-bar gates found ourselves in the lane above Slattenslade. We turned right down to a cottage and here turned left to climb up towards the car parks above Woody Bay. At a crossroads we bore right downhill and, at a hairpin bend, turned off left into the bridleway which leads to Hunters Inn.
This is a good, broad track along which we marched at a smart, Somerset Light Infantry pace through a woodland of old oaks which stretched away down to the sea far below. It was a beautiful, sunny morning with a veil of haze where the sea faded into the sky.

The woodland eventually gave way to open heathland, where the air was rich with the earthy scent of the dying bracken, and we were rewarded with marvellous views eastwards along the coast towards Lynmouth. The sea was denim blue, patched dark by the passing clouds.

The Coastal Path was clearly visible a hundred feet or so beneath us. If we had turned right at Slattenslade, the lane would have taken us down towards the beach and given access to the path.
The bridle path, however, suited us fine, and we bowled along towards Hunters Inn. As usual a smattering of dog walkers warned us that we were getting nearer and, after passing into the woodland above Heddons Mouth, suddenly the pub was there before us. It was too early for more than a handful of customers, and we walked past the entrance and over the river before turning left into the path which led us up the valley, first through Invention Wood and then Heale Wood until we crossed the foot bridge to regain the road. Opposite was Mill Farm, whose chimney was one of those wondrous structures which have stood for so long that their stonework appears to have metamorphosed into some strange vegetable matter. It was guarded by an elderly terrier who was enlivening his twilight days by playing chicken in the road.

We walked a short way up the lane before turning right into a metalled driveway which was signposted as a footpath to a place with the delicious name of Higher Bumsley. The sunlight was slanting downwards through the trees but an icy chill fingered upwards from the stream which foamed white beneath us away towards the sea.

The path passed behind the Heddon Mill buildings, and then climbed away steeply towards Parracombe. It levelled out and then took us along through pasture land before entering a narrow path as we neared the village. There were high hazel hedges underpinned by bramble patches on either side of the way before we came down past some stone barns into the outlying hamlet of Bodley with its old cottages propped up against the weather by vast buttresses. Just past a rank of modernish houses we took a footpath which finally took us down through a maze of cottages before it tipped us out into the street just above the river bridge and the Fox & Goose.

The pub is a late Victorian building with a curious pub sign. On one side there is the fox, luridly caricatured and about to tuck into a large pie, presumably containing the goose. On the other side is the goose itself, depicted more in the slightly mystical style of a primitive cave painting. It’s an eccentric contrast.

Inside, the bar has plenty of stained tongue-and-groove woodwork and walls crowded with prints, photographs, and even framed collections of old cigarette cards, one featuring some of my favourite boxing heroes like Jack Johnson and Jimmy Wilde. There are also some splendid stuffed animals, including a stags head, which has seen better days but has fabulous antlers, and two terrific foxes at either end of the room. There is no stuffed goose.

This sympathetic ambience was rounded out by some comfortably shabby furniture, so much more preferable to the leatherette banquettes and divans favoured by some hostelries. In the background we were treated to Benny Goodman’s small groups from the late 1930’s. These days too many pubs at lunchtime use local radio as musical wallpaper to amuse a bored barman. My wife, who loathes jazz, could have done without either.
There were three proper beers, all racked up behind the bar and served straight from the barrel at the best of temperatures. Ever dedicated to drinking anything new to us, we started for the purposes of research with a pint each of Bays Gold. Bays Brewery has been brewing in Paignton only since last year, and its Gold is a typical, lemony, bitter bitter of that ilk. If you like these citrus-type ales, you will like Bays. We are not that crazy about them, and we moved on to an old favourite, Cotleigh’s Barn Owl, a dark-red kind of junior porter which we find irresistible. The Fox & Goose takes its food seriously, and charges accordingly. You can get a sandwich for less than five pounds, but the fresh fish dishes were only just short of £15 and a fillet steak would set you back £16. The cooking obviously enjoys a reputation as on a Friday lunchtime there was a respectable number of people eating. It was a grand place to sit, however, and enjoy a five star pint.
We turned left out of the pub and walked up the narrow, winding street before taking a lane to our right which led past an obviously Victorian gothic revival church. We continued past the primary school until a track led us to the original parish church of St Petrock, usually identified as a Cornish saint – Padstow is supposed to be a corruption of his name – although he was the son of a Welsh king and gives his name also to churches in Devon and Somerset. The church dates from the eleventh century and since 1879, when the other church was first planned, has disappointed all those who have expected it to fall down. John Ruskin, who donated £10, was among the many who contributed to ensure that it was not demolished and the new church built on its site. The Georgian interior is quite unspoiled with a splendid screen and lovely box pews.

We continued up the track and crossed the A39, climbing by one of the various paths at the foot of Parracombe Common. We reached a lane, turned left, and soon found the road which led us back to Martinhoe Cross and Woody Bay Station. Just before the main road there was pull-in where one could have parked if necessary.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks – Nine mile walk from Hillsford Bridge to the Blue Ball at Countisbury via the Valley of Rocks and Lynmouth

2008-09-01T07:56:00.000-07:00

We started from the National Trust car park at Hillsford Bridge, tucked away through a gateway on the western side of the crossroads. We walked up the main A39 road until a hairpin bend, and then passed straight on into the bridle way which leads up through the Lyn Valley Woodlands Nature Reserve. We emerged from the woods where a hump on the left marked an ancient settlement, and from here on there were marvellous views, firstly over Watersmeet. With August and the summer now in terminal decline, the constant downpour had been replaced momentarily with a thick slab of sweaty grey cloud. Drizzle was never far away and hung in the valley like smoke.
As the path wound around the top of Myrtleberry Cleave, with the muffled but constant roar of the East Lynn River beneath us, we eventually found ourselves looking down the valley towards Lynmouth with its tongue of surf distant on the shoreline.
We ignored all the paths to the right which would have taken us the nearest way into the town, and waited until we could zigzag down through the woods until we emerged at the foot of the gorge at Lynbridge and crossed the river by the foot bridge. A chilly sense of tragedy lurks here. To someone of my generation, Lynton and Lynmouth are associated forever with the appalling floods of 1952 in which thirty five people perished. The disaster coincided with the period in which television sets became popular, in preparation for the coronation planned for the next year. Family friends had a set which provided this five year old with a gallery of shocking images he would never forget – the broken little Devon town, shattered by mud, rocks and water, and then a month later the death of John Cobb on Loch Ness, his speed boat spinning in its fatal somersault, disappearing in a cloud of spray and debris.
These images remain necessarily frozen in black and white, but then it was a monochrome morning as we crossed the road and headed up a lane marked as a no-through road. It took us along the top of the gorge towards the town, the way shadowed by arches of dripping trees, while below it were the roofs of houses clinging to the cliff-face. It must have taken an extraordinary effort by the Victorian and Edwardian developers of Lynton to build these villas almost hovering in mid-air. The most remarkable, perhaps, is Lynhurst which is let as a luxury holiday home, and is all gables, balconies, and bay windows, fearlessly defying gravity high above the town.
Just past the entrance to Lynhurst, the road runs down into Lynton town centre, and we walked up Allerford Terrace in an attempt to bypass it. We did so, but then made a bad mistake. Instead of a left and a right turn which would have taken us to the Valley of Rocks by a footpath, I was seduced by a road sign to the Valley which took us out of the town by a main road bordered by guest houses and a disgracefully overgrown cemetery which had a First World War memorial at its gate. Unfortunately, it also led us into the Valley past the scenic National Park public conveniences and Mother Meldrum’s teashop, promising the delights of its Ragged Jack buns.
Ragged Jack, of course, is the Valley’s signature feature. I am unable to comment on the eponymous confectionery.
As we turned on to the coastal path, there is a marvellous view westwards Castle Rock.
The path is metalled and a popular walk out of the town for those who scorn use of the two capacious car parks in the Valley itself. Eventually a rougher track forks off to the left, and we took it so that we would come out at the edge of the Western Beach and the harbour. We passed a curious notice warning against explosive mines being used for animal control. They were said to be “humane”, which presumably meant that the mole or whatever didn’t feel anything but a warm, cosy glow when blown to smithereens. We emerged at the bottom of the cliff into a horde of motorists attempting to find a parking space, and smugly threaded our way towards the harbour, past the award-winning fish and chipper and its long queue, to the footbridge near the landmark Rhenish Tower.
The channel for the river is remarkably wide, presumably as a flood defence.
After passing the pitch and putt course, the coastal path up Countisbury Hill is clearly signed. We began our ascent of this notorious incline, although a combination of modern road construction and user-friendly gear boxes has tamed the beast since my Auntie Mary became stuck here in the 1950’s, unable to go forwards and too frightened to reverse.
For a pedestrian it’s quite a climb but a pretty steady one, and eventually the tower of Countisbury church popped up over the skyline and the job was done.

We passed through the churchyard and under the arch of yews, and there was the Blue Ball in front of us.

For a number of years the pub was known tweely as the Exmoor Sandpiper but the present landlord has wisely returned it to its original name. Parts of the long, low building are seven hundred years old. The bar consists of an irregular succession of low-ceilinged, black-beamed rooms with modern pub furniture. We sat at the bar under a praiseworthy sign which promised, “Dogs, children,” and best of all, “muddy boots welcome.”

Welcome - Doughnut, the pub dog

Beers on tap were Exmoor, St Austell, and “Blue Ball Ale”. We couldn’t resist the latter, even when we discovered that it wasn’t homebrew but our old friend Cousin Jack in disguise. It was served at just the right temperature and made excellent drinking, proving that a pint of old-fashioned boy’s bitter sometimes slips down just as well as a high-alcohol speciality. Food is middle of the road, both in price and variety. Baguettes and filled spuds were change from a fiver, and mains were £8.95. The blackboard is half way down the bar area.
On the wall is a magnificent boar’s head. One recent landlord even re-named the pub the “Blue Boar”, but when he left for America he took the head with him. The present incumbent went out and found another.

We knew the way well back to Hillsford Bridge. We took the bridle way just above the pub which leads down to Watersmeet, and then hiked up the river bank back to our truck.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks – Eleven mile walk from Simonsbath to the Crown at Exford and on to Withypool

2008-08-29T11:41:00.000-07:00

There are some days when you should pull the covers over your head and stay in bed, days when everything is fated to go wrong. This was one of them. For a bare summer month a twice weekly bus service runs from Dulverton to Lynmouth and back, allowing walkers to hop off at places like Exford, Simonsbath, and Hillsford Bridge and yomp over the moor without having to perform a circle to reach home. Frustrated by the dreadful weather, it was almost the end of August before we clambered for the first time into the little 401 bus at Withypool bridge. Predictably, the plastic box by the driver held little more than his cash float as, apart from my wife and two other Withypool locals, this merry little band was travelling for free on its bus cards. A little community singing of the “I’m h-a-p-p-y” variety by the assembled company would not have seemed out of place except it might have woken the grey-bearded rambler on our left who seemed plunged in a deep coma, his venerable head lolling perilously on a vast rucksack which would have challenged a Royal Marine commando, leave alone this first cousin to Rumpelstiltskin.
He was still unconscious when we were put down in Simonsbath, a soggy place where the sun rarely seems to call. There had been half an inch of rain during the night, and it was still in the air as we walked up past the Exmoor Forest Inn. The path up Ashcombe appeared on the map to sprout from the Exmoor National Park car park, but we hiked up and down it twice before we discovered the signpost, cunningly concealed behind some trees, at the edge of the second level. This car park features one of the several grisly National Park information or study centres on the moor which, boarded up and locked up, are rotting quietly away until they will be no more than a heap of stones of doubtful origin, like Larkbarrow Farm or the Wheal Eliza.

Looking south from above Ashcombe

The path climbed round the edge of Ashcombe Plantation before it set off across open grassland towards the ridge between Prayway Head and Warren Farm. There we passed through a gate to put ourselves on the edge of the open moor before turning right, but even so we failed to follow the path intended. Long distance paths like the Macmillan Way are often more a theoretical conception in the mind of their creators than a signposted reality on the ground, and so we missed the tricky left and right turns across the moor – a CIA global positioning system might have helped - which would have taken us over the romantically named Ravens Nest. We had kept the field boundary close on our right, often a shrewd tactic on the moor, and found ourselves ankle deep in sheep dung. We managed to negotiate one flooded gateway with some impressive acrobatics over rails and fencing, but only found ourselves back in the mire. These antics were watched impassively by several hundred muttons, the biggest flock I have ever seen in a single enclosure.
By the time we reached the end of their enclosure, we were peering down into the Exe valley just above Warren Farm. There was no perceptible path and, after keeping to the top of the combe for a while, we lost patience and plunged downwards through the soaking bracken. The path proper was soon revealed to us by a sighting of a sedentary group of teenagers, prostrated by the gradient and by their massive burdens which would have tested the hardiest of sherpas, catching their breath and drinking coke. It was no easier going down than going up, as the way was bare rock slick with rain. Somehow we slithered downwards and fell out into the lane, soaked from the knee downwards, just above a handsome bridge over the river. The writer SH Burton in his seminal “Exmoor” rhapsodises over this valley and Warren Farm. On a grey, mizzling morning, it was difficult to catch his mood as we hiked up the hard road under the farmhouse, built by John Knight in the mid nineteenth century as part of his grand plan to make his Exmoor possessions a going concern. The paintwork was looking a little sorry for itself and it looked a damp old refuge.

High above it towers the famous stand of trees, visible for miles from all parts of the moor and a welcome landmark for staghunters on the Forest when the mist comes down. Soon we were out on the moor again heading for Larkbarrow Corner, and our troubles were just beginning. The track is ragged, dirty, and wet and, however hard you try to bypass it, you have to keep returning to it. The sweep of the open moorland would be breathtaking, if you didn’t have to keep looking at your feet to see what slough of despond they were sinking into next. It makes for slow going and the best way of crossing it is on horseback.

The moor near Larkbarrow Corner

Eventually, however, we reached the road at Larkbarrow Corner, and turned left towards Exford. It’s quite a walk into Exford from the north wherever you are on the moor, and there are surprisingly few paths leading southwards. We had had our fill of wilderness and swung along the road, ignoring the bridleway, which is churned up on a regular basis by the hunt, past the charming house and gardens at Wellshead, and into Exford by way of Edgcott.
The entrance to the bar of the Crown faces the green. The room wasn’t as large as I had expected, and it was crowded with couples and families enjoying a Bank Holiday Sunday lunch. Locals stood two deep at the bar at the far end but courteously parted like the Red Sea as we approached, our tongues lolling like elderly labradors. There was a choice of Exmoor Ale and St Austell’s lemony bitter, Proper Job. We started with the former and followed up with the latter but, if they failed to hit the usual spot satisfactorily, it probably was because the beer was served a tad cold. There was an excellent stag’s head on the wall, complete with a full description of its hunting in 1930 and an excellent photograph of Ernest Bawden’s hounds, as well as good hunting caricatures on the walls. Sunday lunch, of course, was the order of the day, but there was the usual run of lunchtime snacks with prices only just above the average despite it being a hotel. The children were well-behaved, the tables were quickly cleared of empty plates, but it was a hotel bar for all that. If you want a drink in Exford, however, it’s a hotel or nothing.
We had had enough of muck and moorland for one day, and fled homewards along the lanes, ignoring the cross country routes via Courts Farm or Chibbets Ford.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks – Eight mile walk from Holdstone Hill to Hunters Inn via Heddons Mouth

2008-08-18T07:18:00.000-07:00

And at last the rain stopped. This has been a season which has recalled all the soggy ghastliness of childhood summer holidays in the mid 1950’s - sodden days, dripping guest houses, clammy caravans – and so a dry day made a welcome treat. We parked in the first car park under Holdstone Hill from the Combe Martin-Blackmoor Gate road. A well-defined track led straight up through the heather, now gorgeous in purple peppered with yellow gorse, towards the summit which was marked by a cairn of stones. On a clear, cool morning the all-round views were breathtaking, whether towards Lundy Island, or towards the Welsh coast, or inland towards the rugged outline of Dartmoor.

Towards Lundy from Holdstone Hill

Inland from Holdstone Hill

Our path lay eastwards along a dramatic parade of cliffs. We took the track straight down off the hill until it petered out, climbed through a gap in the stone wall of an enclosure of rough grazing, and soon turned right on to the coastal path. It took us round the side of Holdstone Down and then upwards towards a local landmark, a house known as “The Glass Box”. It even merits a naming on the Explorer OS map but anyone expecting some startling, if not outrageous, example of modern architecture will be disappointed. It’s just a large bungalow with outsize, blank-looking windows. The track swings away below this mediocrity and across the foot of Trentishoe Down towards the cliffs. On the way we came across some amazing mushrooms. The lyrics of Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” insisted on meandering into my head, “And you’ve just had some kind of mushroom, And your mind is moving slow, Go ask Alice I think she’ll know.” I think that even Alice would have known that just a soupçon of one of these exotic and sinister fungi probably would prove fatal.

Anyone who has felt ever that that the coastal path sometimes wanders too far from the sea will have his faith restored here. As the track approaches Heddons Mouth itself, it only just manages to cling to the side of the cliff as it circles round far above the little grey coves. These are some of the highest cliffs of the English coastline, and the turns and narrows of the way make for a giddy experience, although the heather-clad slopes and the views over the sea will repay anyone who holds their nerve.

Sheep lay calmly on the edge of the crags where just one slip would hurl them hundreds of feet into the sea below.At Peter’s Rock, with the beach at Heddons Mouth now visible far below, the track turns sharp right to follow the side of the combe which runs down from Hunters Inn. It seems to take you a long way back up the bare upper slopes of the valley but at last a defile comes in from the right and you descend a steep path to the valley floor.

At the bottom we turned left and walked down the broad, shaded track towards the beach. After the recent rains the Heddon river roared down the cleave until it boiled over the stony shore and into the sea itself. On a little eminence was a restored limekiln which years ago was supplied by sea. We turned back up the valley, crossing the river at the wooden footbridge, and walked up he eastern bank through the trees towards the pub. It’s a lovely walk and deservedly popular.

There had been quite a few people on the path, some with dogs and others with children carrying shrimping nets and rather optimistic buckets and spades, but this didn’t prepare us for the crowd at the Hunters Inn. Cars were parked in every conceivable spot, and the pub was doing a roaring lunch trade. Unlike most pubs on Exmoor with hunting associations, which normally are bullish in celebrating their origins, the Hunters Inn sign portrays a peacock. Did it refer to some eccentric form of venery only practised in the Parracombe area? No, the inspiration for this rather defensive emblem were roosting cosily on the first floor balcony, hopefully not inconveniencing in any unfortunate way the al fresco lunchers below.

The Hunters Inn is a very considerable building with two imposing gables, railed balconies, and plenty of the turn-of-the-century timbering popular with the Edwardians. The original pub, a thatched and ancient farmhouse, had burned down in 1895 and was rebuilt in the grand manner. The outdoor tables were thronged with customers, and girls in black trousers and tops scuttled in and out with loaded trays. “Lager or John Smith’s?” was my wife’s damning prediction as we made our way through a large, plain saloon to the bar at the far end. May we be forgiven for all our preconceptions, not to say prejudices. There were six pumps which ran the gamut of the Exmoor Brewery’s greatest treats – Ale, Gold, Fox, Stag, Silver Stallion and, almost unbelievably, the Beast itself. Exmoor Beast is a legendary dark porter with an ABV of 6.6.% which we had drunk previously only in bottles. Two pints were pulled up by the chatty barman who revealed that there was no problem in selling a barrel a week, and that it was always on offer. My wife, apparently, was not the only woman to square up to the Beast. The previous week he had poured a pint for a lady of a certain age with the cheery admonition, “That’ll put hair on your chest.” “Too late,” was her husband’s instant but unfortunate reply. A chilly silence fell.

The Exmoor Brewery website counsels, “This is a beer to be respected, sipped slowly to warm up a winter’s night while the weather does its worst. Or you might like it slightly chilled elsewhere in the year, a beer drinker’s version of an Irish coffee.” We drank ours as we always do, like Australian drovers with five minutes to go before six o’clock. We mellowed quickly towards the Hunters Inn. It must have considerable overheads compared with most Exmoor pubs and quite rightly chases the tourist pound as hard as it can go. The food prices are a pound or even more up on other moorland pubs, but the location of the Hunters entitles it to make hay from its proximity to the holiday centres of the North Devon coast. I admired the unorthodox attitude to the conventions of meal times of one elderly lady who for lunch worked her way through a cream tea and a large slice of sponge.
The pub never stops trying. In September there will be a beer festival, and on the second Sunday evening of each month there is a trad jazz band with the delicious name of the Heddon Valley Stumblers. Notices on the wall begged for any superfluous musical instruments its customers might have, which would be lodged in the bar for anyone to pick up and play. The notice promised that they would be tuned. There were three guitars leaning against a fireplace and, half way down my second pint of Beast, I tried one. It was in perfect tune but the assembled company was spared any fumbling attempts at my trying to remember the fingering of “Candy Man” or “Angie”.
After two pints of Beast, the rest of the walk passed in something of a blur. Leaving the pub, we turned right and walked westwards along the narrow road. After about a quarter of a mile, we forked left off the lane and up a broad track signposted to the Ladies Mile. We kept on through the woodland with a stream foaming on our left, ignoring all signs to Heale, until we came to a T junction of paths where we turned left and walked along the Ladies Mile round the southern slopes of Trentishoe Down. When we issued out into a metalled lane opposite to the gates of Trentishoe Manor, we realised that we had gone too far. We should have taken an unsigned track to our right a hundred yards or so before. We turned about and took the first track uphill to our left, and sure enough this led us up over Trentishoe Down until we reached the road just above The Glass Box. Here we turned left and a short walk along the road brought us back to our starting point at the car park.

Inland from Trentishoe Down

I borrowed the course of this walk from an article by Sue Viccars in the “Exmoor Magazine”. Exmoor’s excellent coffee table magazine features an enjoyable description of a moorland walk by Sue in each issue. To be perverse, we had walked in the opposite direction to her original, but anyone intending to sample the delights of the “Hunters Inn” would be well-advised to follow our example and complete the cliff-top section before they reach the pub.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks – Ten mile walk from County Gate to the Rockford Inn via the Glenthorne Estate & Watersmeet

2008-07-31T16:23:00.000-07:00

This should top the list of walks on Exmoor to do before you die – or before you become too halt and lame at least. We parked in the County Gate car park, not one to receive rosettes for scenic beauty with its boxlike public convenience and boarded-up National Park Centre. On a glorious July day, however, this eyesore was immediately forgotten as we walked across the road and down to the coastal path with stunning views already over the sea. On the path someone was busily setting up a water station for a run from Countisbury to Minehead as we turned left down the track towards the Glenthorne nature reserve. We were soon in mixed woodland and then a pinery, with the sea blue beneath us through the trees. We came across a weird cistern with a cross on top and, after we had turned right into a driveway, two pillars topped with boars’ heads. Just past this impressive gateway, there was a fine lodge house with latticed windows but, within yards, the path left the driveway and led us high above what was presumably Glenthorne House. It would have done if the Reverend Halliday’s gothic country house was still standing but, like Ashley Combe House further north, apparently it had gone.

It was no matter as the views over the sea from the path were to die for, with numbers of small combes down which streams rushed towards the rocky beaches. A walker coming in the opposite direction warned us of “two coach loads” of runners heading towards us and, sure enough, soon they appeared in their singlets and flimsy shorts, puffing and sweating. They had twenty one miles to cover, and on a baking hot morning I earnestly hoped that they would not suffer the fate of the original marathon runner who brought the news to Athens of the great victory at the eponymous battle - after delivering his message he dropped dead on the spot. Feeling particularly smug, we continued on our even-paced way through shade and shadow, unaware that we all too soon would face a fate perhaps worse than death.

Just before Foreland Point we emerged into the full force of the blazing sun and, after following a service road to the lighthouse between steep gravel-patched hillocks, we turned left into a path which climbed steeply upwards towards Countisbury. To our right was a magnificent view of Lynmouth and its beach before the top of Countisbury church tower popped up over the skyline. We passed through the church yard and out between an avenue of yews to find the busy Blue Ball pub directly in front of us.

Like a good hound, however, we kept true to our line and passed by the tempting open door, keeping ever before us an image of our intended waterhole, the Rockford Inn. This mental picture had been much influenced by reading an often hilarious blog by a former licensee of the Rockford Inn on how he bought the pub and attempted to drag it screaming into the present century. His struggle to prevent passing coach parties from using his lavatories without buying a drink, and to keep his dipsomaniac customers under some form of control, is an epic of Homeric proportions. Curiously, the narrative stops abruptly. Perhaps, he threw himself into the East Lynn river.
The bridleway to Watersmeet could be clearly seen from the churchyard and, after turning left and then crossing the main road, we turned our back to the sea and set off over the ridge southwards. We passed through a grassy lane, down some pasture, and eventually into woodland. The path narrowed and then snaked downhill through a succession of hairpin bends. We ignored the first path to Rockford and Brendon, determined to reach the bottom of the gorge and to see Watersmeet itself. It was the first Sunday of the school holidays, hordes sunned themselves on the rocks, and the National Trust tearoom was in full swing. As usual with the National Trust, the institution which has allowed the middle classes to inherit the earth, the lavatories were immaculate. We took a picture of the two rivers and fled up the valley towards Brendon.

This river walk is one of stunning beauty – cascading waterfalls and churning rapids framed by the arched greenery of the trees. Sometimes the flow of the water pauses to form deep, still pools. On such a scorching day only the occasional appearance of other walkers dissuaded you from stripping off and sliding into the dark water. It was a magical experience.

The appearance of some cottages announced our arrival at Rockford. The pub was clearly visible on the far bank, and we found the footbridge and crossed into the sunlit lane where a sign confidently announced not just the Rockford Inn but that it had its own microbrewery as well.
Did it, hell! It was closed. A passer-by could tell us that the pub had been sold and that the new landlord was due to open the next day. This was not much consolation to two hot and very thirsty walkers. Somehow Slim Dusty’s wonderful ballad “A Pub With No Beer” came back to me, “There’s nothing so lonesome, so dull, or so drear, than to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer.” We couldn’t even get inside. The best my internal rhyming dictionary could provide me with to sing as I stormed off up the lane to Brendon was, “There’s nothing to hit you so hard in the gut as to stand at the door of a pub that is shut!”

This was a real crisis. It was 1.45 pm. Could we reach the Staghunters Inn at Brendon before they called last orders? We made it in a hack canter by two o’clock. No closed door here… the blessed shade of the bar after the glare of the sun… a welcoming landlord… and on the pump – Cotleigh’s divine Barn Owl. Barn Owl is a sort of junior version of Buzzard. It’s a dark copper beer which drinks like a summer porter, and we didn’t need the recommendation of the two gentlemen playing pool to order up two pints. The world suddenly seemed a much better place as we sat at the bar opposite to the sepia photograph of an Edwardian meet of the Staghounds, and listened to the lady opposite complaining that her pool-playing husband’s lunch was spoiling. We sympathised with him; better a pint of Barn Owl than the roast beef of Old England. Apparently, the Rockford Inn had been opening only sporadically for some time. Let us hope that it may be about to enter on a period of new prosperity. We will give it a second chance – but we’ll check that it’s open first.

We walked on to Leeford Green, and turned left over the river. We ignored the sign that claimed that the road was closed and turned right to Hall Farm where we took the steep path which led us along the side of the valley. Where the valley swings right round towards Dooneland, we kept left past Ashton Farm and then climbed over the moorland, with views towards Badgworthy, until we suddenly we were looking down on County Gate.

Welsh coast from above Ashton Farm

Doone Valley from Ashton Farm

The good news is that the Rockford Inn is open again. Recently we returned to have lunch there. The top half of the stable-type door was open, leading into a pleasant, half-timbered room. The bar was stencilled with information about the pub, the river, and the fishing, and “Lorna Doone”, and you stepped up into a further room into which the bar extended to be served. To the side of this, through an archway decorated with a pleasant mural of fox, stag, and hare, was another room, and beyond that there was another available if the pub was packed. Each had its own fireplace or wood-burning stove. There’s also a small terrace on the other side of the road overlooking the river and the footbridge. Proper beers, served straight from the barrels racked up behind the bar, were Cotleigh 25 and our favourite Cotleigh Barn Owl. We had a cheap lunch off toasted sandwiches at little more than £3 each plus a bowl of chips for £1.50. Baguettes were a quid more than sandwiches. There’s every hope that the new team will prosper as it deserves. Several passing walkers came in on a Friday lunchtime. The pub is open every evening, and every lunchtime except Mondays.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks – Ten mile walk from Dry Bridge to the Staghunters at Brendon via the Doone Valley

2008-07-28T08:14:00.000-07:00

“Lorna Doone”, a classic story which many know but few have read, is worth a fortune to the Exmoor tourist industry. It’s a pity that the novel, a beguiling mixture of “Romeo and Juliet” and “Cinderella”, with just a dash of the “Seven Samurai”, is finished by so few. The narration through the subjective consciousness of the lunkhead hero John Ridd may alienate many readers. Thousands flock each year to visit Oare church, where in the book Lorna was married, and Lorna Doone Farm, from which they can follow in the footsteps of the hero, John Ridd, and walk up through Badgworthy Wood as he would have done on his perilous way to the Doone encampment. Unlike John, they may stop at Cloud Farm on the way back and fortify themselves with a cream tea or an ice cream after their exertions.
Just to be awkward, our walk approached the “Doone Valley” from a much less popular direction, although it means that you see far more of the scenery which inspired RD Blackmore’s fictitious romance. We parked at one of the several car parks in the shadow of Shilstone Hill on the road from Simonsbath to Lynmouth. From the most southerly one, the bridleway to the Doone Valley leads away over Brendon Common until it is crossed by the path coming up from Tippacott ridge. Here we turned right and walked under Withycombe Ridge until there was a fine view down towards Hoccombe Combe, which was the valley which actually inspired Blackmore’s conception of the Doone’s “Hole in the Wall” fortress. Most people assume that the beautiful course of Badgworthy Water, which so many walk up each summer, is the Doone Valley, but in fact it’s the much wilder Hoccombe Combe.

The track led us on downwards through sheep pasture until the stream which falls through Hoccombe Combe is on one’s right, a little further on flowing into Badgworthy Water itself. The map boldly marks this spot as “Medieval Village – site of”, which every commentator agrees was the spot where Blackmore set the Doone camp. Blackmore once admitted that if he had known that the book was going to prove such a bestseller and to stir up such interest in its setting, he might have tried to stick more closely to the actual topography of the place. As it was, and as writers do, he reshaped it through his imagination into something rather different. Indeed Blackmore, who supported himself by keeping a market garden in Surrey, has become the stuff of romance himself, as he is claimed severally to have written the book in all sorts of places on the moor, from Lorna Doone Farm to the Royal Oak at Withypool. I myself may claim a tenuous connection with the great man as he started his school days at my old alma mater, King’s School, Bruton. He didn’t like it and was moved to Blundells, Tiverton.
No one should become too excited by the ruins at the foot of Hoccombe Combe. They are neither the remains of the mediaeval village, nor of an outlaw’s hideaway, but of a nineteenth century shepherd’s cottage. Knowing, however, that the shepherd and his daughter perished in the snow walking back from Simonsbath is a sobering thought when you look back up the combe on a summer’s day.

A little further on we took the path to the left which leads you down Badgworthy Water, flanked by clustering rhododendrons, and into Badgworthy Wood with its crowd of old oaks. It was easy to be cynical about this popular valley, as we passed a horde of school children plunging into the icy water and collected up some shreds of old plastic bags, but it truly is a lovely spot.

Below is how hunting artist Lionel Edwardes saw Lorna's discovery of the unconscious John Ridd by Badgworth Water.

As you emerge from the wood and approach Cloud Farm, it is particularly beautiful as the water tumbles over stone ledges and through the rocks. Even so, the next photograph had to be framed carefully to exclude a tent pitched at the bottom of the Cloud Hill camping site. What a place, however, to fall asleep, and to wake, with the sound of the river rushing by. Opposite is a memorial to Blackmore.

From Cloud Farm the bridleway took us down to the lane which leads to Malsmead and Lorna Doone Farm, home of the fictional Ridd Family. With a willing suspension of disbelief, you may ignore the fact that now it is a gift shop, even airbrush out of your mind the fat man staring at it morosely while devouring a sandwich, and see it as the Doones did when they attacked, or just enjoy the little bridge over the river.

Following the lane towards Brendon, we went through a gate and took the steep path uphill into Southern Wood, a mixture of conifers and old oaks. When the track reaches the road again, you are in a different world. The valley which leads towards Brendon looks as if it might flow with milk and honey with its flat pastures either side of the river flanked by green hills. We walked along the narrow lane until we reached the edge of Brendon village at Leeford Green, a pleasant crossroads bordered by the East Lynn river. A short walk straight ahead soon takes you to the Staghunters Inn. On the right of the road is a narrow beer garden overlooking the river, while the pub proper is on the left.

The bar entrance takes you into the “public” with its pool table. You can sit on high wooden stools at the bar here or on an old settle under a fine old photograph of the Devon & Somerset Staghounds. On the left is a bigger room, nicely furnished and with all sorts of stag hunting memorabilia, including numbers of “slots” from deer killed locally and the most magnificent stag’s head I have ever seen in a pub. There are good hunting prints on the wall to go with it.

Proper beers were Cavalier, Exmoor Ale, and Cousin Jack. Attracted by the political sentiments, we ordered Cavalier from the Clearwater Brewery at Torrington. My wife rated it very highly, appreciating its dark colour and its sharp, hoppy flavour. For a beer of 4% it certainly punches its weight, and it grew on me every pull I took. We went back for seconds. Service here is very friendly, and the beer is served spot on, just on the right side of cool. For a Tuesday, there were quite a few people eating, and there was a wide choice of mains at the £7-8 mark. More expensive but very tempting were specials of venison stew and local trout. You only had to look at the walls of the bar, or at the East Lynn river rushing past the garden, to know that the ingredients of both dishes would not have had to travel very far. A few weeks later we were to return with our son in tow, and had lunch with some superb Cotleigh Barn Owl. My wife's exotic cream cheese with red pepper salsa sandwich at £4.60 was delicious. The male of the species had two excellent granary baguettes, one sausage and onion and one bacon and brie, for a few pennies more.
We walked back to Leeford Green, and took the road to the right. The lane is a steep pull up to Cross Gate, with good views back down to Brendon and over the ridge towards the sea. When we reached the moor again, we went straight across looking for a right hand path to lead us back to Dry Bridge. Taking a line from the field edge and bank on our right, we struck out across the moor and soon fell into the track back to Dry Bridge down which we had walked some hours earlier. There was no sign of the promised bridleway, but if faint hearts just follow the obvious track, they will not go very far out of their way when they are led over to the cross above Lankcombe Ford where we had turned right earlier for Hoccombe Combe.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks – Ten Mile Walk to the Black Venus, Challacombe, including The Chains and Mole’s Chamber

2008-07-17T05:40:00.000-07:00

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.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks – Nine Mile Walk up the Barle Valley to the Exmoor Forest Inn, Simonsbath

2008-07-17T05:14:00.000-07:00

This is the classic river valley walk on Exmoor. The path in the opposite direction from Withypool to Tarr Steps will have its enthusiasts, as will the Exe valley between Winsford and Exford. Neither of them, however, have the haunting and lonely beauty of the stretch of water upstream from Withypool past Cow Castle to Simonsbath. We started at Bradymoor Gate, the stretch of moorland above Landacre Bridge, where it is easy to park. Quixotically, you won’t find Bradymoor named on any map, just on the meet cards of the local hunts. If you can find a space in the car park at Withypool, however, you would enjoy the walk up the river to Landacre, and you can celebrate the addition of three miles to your journey when you return by having a cream tea in the excellent tearoom opposite the shop. On your outward journey you would walk up the steep hill from Landacre Bridge past Lanacre Farm, which is spelled without the consonant that no one ever bothers to pronounce, and at the top turn left into the track which we followed ourselves.
The track is easy to follow. Where it divides at a broken signpost, we veered left and then downhill towards the river. On our left we could look down towards the bridge, the sun glinting silver on the water before it glided through the ancient stone arches. In front of us stretched the deep combe of Sherdon Water running down to meet the Barle at Sherdon Hutch.

The track passes down a longish stretch of sheep-grazed moor before eventually falling into a sunken road which leads into a large block of conifers. The way through the regimented pines is necessarily gloomy but the river is always visible to your left and the monotony is constantly broken by streams breaking across the path. You emerge from the trees at Horsen Ford with its footbridge, on which you can stand and watch the dark and silent water rush towards Landacre between banks crowded with montbretia. The path itself, however, continues through the plantation until it leads across some marshy ground towards the two mounds of the Calf and Cow Castle. The bridleway passes behind the hillocks, but it’s not difficult to follow the bank of the river if you prefer, with just a few rocky places to scramble round past the deep and still pools in the elbow of the river.

This is the best of the moor as the dark river flows through the high and rounded slopes of the hills. The path runs on until just before the mass of Flexbarrow rises above the river there are the ruins of the buildings of the Wheal Eliza. It is one of the many testaments on Exmoor to industrial vanity. “Wheal” derives in Cornish from “huel”, and simply means a mine working. The Wheal Eliza was opened to extract iron ore but the quantities were never viable. The spot was also notorious as the place in 1858 where one John Burgess buried his daughter, Anna, after murdering her as the girl disliked his mistress. Thankfully, only a last few crumbling signs of the mine remain, and the spot remains as isolated and beautiful as ever.

Nearby were patches of wild cornflowers.
Just beyond Flexbarrow we encountered a large group of primary schoolchildren sitting on the grass and receiving a local history lesson. It is an easy hike from here on into Simonsbath, finally through woodland which leads to the road just below the Exmoor Forest Inn. It’s not an inn, of course, it’s quite plainly a hotel, but none the less pleasant for all that. It’s made very clear to you at the entrance that you should take your boots off, but you will not feel in the least out of place padding about in your socks. There is even a large cupboard just inside the door with towels to clean off your dog. The bar is very much a hotel bar, but even so there are enough stuffed animals and hunting prints on the walls to create that essential Exmoor drinking ambience of sudden death.

There are also three real beers on tap. On that morning you could choose between Otter, Cousin Jack, and, its pump marked by a handwritten card, a mystery tipple named as “Honey Buzzard”. The very pleasant chap behind the bar explained that it was a Cotleigh porter, difficult to move in summer, and on offer at £2 a pint. If there is one thing in this world which I cannot resist, it’s a pint of porter. It came up with a creamy, frothy head which we were invited to slurp off so that the glasses could be topped up to a full measure. That beats waiting for ten minutes for a pint of Dublin Guinness to be drawn and have its twee shamrock dribbled on the top. The Buzzard was a dream of a pint and, of course, we had two each. Given half a chance, I would have made off with the whole cask. Presumably, the “Honey Buzzard” is the same bird usually called by the Cotleigh brewery plain, simple “Buzzard” and, thankfully, generally available in bottles if a rare sighting on draught.
We are beginning to be able to grade Exmoor grub by price. At the top end of the market in the premier league there are a few establishments with the pretensions, and pretentiousness, of keeping a starred chef. You will leave them with a much lighter wallet and an empty tummy. Then there are places like the Exmoor Forest Inn in the “championship” league where you can spend a bit if you wish – fresh fish and seafood will always cost – but you can get a good plateful for less than a tenner if that’s more your mark. In the autumn we went back for supper. We enjoyed two excellent starters; a cheese pastry basket filled with waldorf salad, and wild field mushrooms in garlic, each with tasty brown bread and a dish of butter, at £5.50. We both had panfried fillets of local trout with a big dollop of dill mayonnaise at £12.95, which came with a side serving of vegetables including new potatoes, butternut squash, leeks, and calabrese.
We walked back the way we had come. We could have taken for the sake of variety the high route via Winstitchen and Picked Stones, but it would have been an anti-climax after the river. After all, even when it’s a there and back again walk, you enjoy two ways of seeing the same thing. As we climbed back from the river up on to Bradymoor, the herd of ponies which is always on these heights came straight at us down the lane, veering off into the heather only at the last moment.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks - Five Mile Walk from the London Inn, Molland

2008-07-06T11:58:00.000-07:00

This was something of a bye day from our programme of walking to pubs which we previously hadn’t visited. The London Inn at Molland is an old haunt, but we were looking for a short walk with our son before having a couple of pints and some lunch, again a rarity for us. It also seemed an ideal opportunity to see how the pub had changed, if at all, since the departure of its previous, long-serving, licensee.
The walk did not go to plan. We parked below the church, and walked out of the village towards Smallacombe. We passed the old chapel on our right, and at Latchgate Cross turned left towards Smallacombe Farm. It should have been a route all too familiar after chasing the Dulverton West hounds up this lane in March, but we took the wrong turn towards Luckworthy and found ourselves on the west side of Triss Combe. My intention had been to pass Smallacombe Farm itself and head out on to Molland Common towards Anstey Gate before turning leftwards towards Ridgeway Cross. We were stuck, however, on the wrong side of the combe but were compensated by a view of a herd of hinds and, later, of ponies on the far horizon. We were soon at Ridgeway Cross with its fine view southwards down the combe. Hunted stags disturbed in Combe Wood, or on the lower reaches of West Anstey Common, often run up Triss Combe before crossing the road and setting sail for the valley of the Danes Brook.

We walked over to Cussacombe Gate, or Cuzzicombe Gate, according to taste. Cuzzicombe Post, which stands just beyond the Gate, is a testament to the rigours of the weather here when you consider that the present one is but thirty years old.

The original plan had been to walk downwards from the post to the bridle path which runs round the cross-country course, but it would have meant arriving at the pub indecently early. Instead we walked on towards Twitchen until we took a track on our left optimistically rated as “unsuitable for motors.” We knew it from hunting but, where we normally turned left into a field back towards the top of the course, we plunged on downwards through some gates along the track which rapidly became unsuitable for human beings, leave alone “motors.” The nadir of this rugged and rather unwise improvisation was when we spilled out at the bottom into another bridle way next to a decomposing sheep.
We turned left and climbed back up on to the cross-country course. Pausing only to admire a frightening log pile jumped in late winter by our field master, Desperate Dan, while the remainder of the DW wisely unlatched an adjacent gate, we at last gained the safety of the bridle way above the course and eventually the lane back into Molland.
My stock as a pathfinder had never been lower, but we reached the London Inn at a respectable 12.30. This is one of Exmoor’s best watering holes, and the main bar, always with a blazing fire in winter, is a very pleasant place to sit with its homely tables, benches and chairs. On the mantle there are photographs of the tame deer which was kept by the landlady of many years, who is now our near neighbour. In the narrower room in front of the bar there is a large blackboard naming all sorts of tempting dishes. Beyond is another pleasant room, and the restaurant is attractive as well.
The new and cheery landlord sticks to the old regime of either Exmoor or Cotleigh straight from the barrel and, as a self-declared beer enthusiast himself, he keeps it very well. We are not normally people who do lunch, but we enjoyed a real treat. The son had a home-made burger and the wife a brie and bacon sandwich, both given ten out of ten. As a recipient of a limitless and free supply of statins from the National Health Service, I had a mouth-watering warm salad of black pudding and bacon with croutons. I also had spotted on the right of the bar a small slate with home-made bar snacks listed, and could not resist a side-serving of beef dripping on toast. That was one in the eye for the cholesterol police, and its flavour brought back all sorts of memories of childhood Sunday lunches. The landlord apologised that he had run out of his home-baked pork crackling but a fresh supply would soon be available. I can’t think of a nicer place to sit and have a stroke or a heart attack. It wasn't long before we were back at the London Inn for supper to do real justice to that blackboard. Food prices are pitched sensibly in the mid-division. My fish in beer batter with chips and home-mushed peas was less than £8, and my wife's smoked chicken with tarragon sauce was only a little more. Son's rump steak was £10.95, and I had no trouble in convincing him of the joys of dripping on toast. The pub was busy on a Saturday evening, and it deserves to be.

Nine Mile Walk from Luxborough to the Valiant Soldier, Roadwater, via Treborough

2008-06-27T10:19:00.000-07:00

There is no problem with parking in Luxborough. The village hall is grand enough to stage a Led Zeppelin Reunion gig, and it has a car park to match. We walked across the road from the car park and took the bridleway which leads upwards towards Lower Court Farm. It is a steep pull through green tunnels of banks and hedges until you emerge on the top of the hills looking over the Washford River. To the south west there are lush strips of game crops, which will hold the pheasants when they are released in the early autumn. The valley is ideal country for game shooting, providing the ideal terrain for the “high birds” which makes the sport a vital element in the local economy.

You pass through a series of gates, which would be tiresome indeed if you were on a horse. They may have afforded a welcome degree of rest for the couple which came running towards us down the pasture below some farm buildings. They must have been in their sixties, greying bird-like creatures with arms and legs no thicker than twigs and little knapsacks bouncing on their backs. We watched them with awe and then passed through the farm buildings and crossed the lane, which would have led down to Lower Court Farm, into a field of sheep. In the next field there is a tricky turn where you pass through a gate on your left before some sheds and then turn sharp right. Away to your left there is a good view of Druids Combe leading back to Luxborough with a typical Brendon Hills landscape of conifers, old woodland, and pasture. As you climb further, you gain a marvellous panorama looking out over the sea with Flatholm and Steepholm in the distance.

We walked up over some crags before the path took us to the lane which leads to Treborough. Here in the bank we discovered Ladys Slippers flowering. Thanks to avoiding all science at school apart from physics, and to being born colour-blind, the discovery of wild flowers such as these is very much a latter-day pleasure.

In Treborough nothing stirred. The Black Death might have nudged it only yesterday. St Peters Church stood none too steadily under a wrap of protective sheeting and scaffolding around its unappealing grey rendering. It was the only sign of any progressive restoration work, and the door was locked. Rattling the door handle too vigorously might have brought the Victorian tower down on our heads.
We passed out of the hamlet without seeing a living soul and climbed up the lane towards the ridge of the Brendons until we turned left at the sign towards Leigh Barton. Beyond the livery stables there was a fox on the track before we inclined right down the restrictive byway. At first the going had been dirtied by horses but soon the track opened into a long and pleasant valley, wooded on the southern side and with an abandoned cottage in the bottom. This brought us to some modern farm buildings and, keeping straight ahead, we came round the side of Leigh Barton Farm, home of Brendon Hill Stoves, with its majestic courtyard of old barns, complete with a wheelhouse.
Gawping at these helped us miss our way for a moment. The sign to Leighland Church (sic) is opposite the wheelhouse and points to a narrow nettle-bordered path past a forgotten pond. Out in a field where the grass had been harvested, we climbed to the highest point to see that the path on to Leighland Chapel was below us to the left on the margin. The next gate was marked clearly “Bull In Field” but, with the cattle fortunately gathered at the bottom of the slope, we bravely marched on until the path tipped us out in the road by the church of St Giles at Leighland Chapel. St Giles is as plain as St Peters but a great deal more stable. The unassuming interior is dominated by an organ grand enough for the Phantom of the Opera to doodle a few melodies.

The footpath which leads straight through the churchyard soon forks, and a left turn took us downhill, past a cottage with a lovely stream and bridge in its garden, to the road down to Roadwater. This straight thoroughfare, which passes some attractive cottages and borders the fast-flowing stream, I fancy was part of course of the old mineral line which once ferried iron ore from the workings at Brendon Hill down to Watchet harbour. We could have taken a path through woodland if we had followed a sign to Woodavent Farm, but we kept to the lane through the sinisterly named Traphole.
Roadwater is an attractive village. The foothills of the Brendons may not be as beautiful as Exmoor proper but the cottages in the villages are more varied and interesting than those west of Wheddon Cross. We walked down a little street and, turning left, we could see the pub far down the Luxborough road on the edge of the village.

I can’t recall ever seeing a “Valiant Soldier” before, and I certainly haven’t had a drink in one. This one is a smart affair, with a long extension at the back which seems to house the skittle alley and accommodation, an extensive car park, and a children’s play area. The front of the pub has pleasant thatched porches and an unusual caricature of the eponymous soldier in relief on the wall. The bar is spacious, and we were greeted by an array of pumps offering Exmoor, Sharps, and Taunton. After our disappointment at the Culbone Stables the week before, Taunton was the obvious choice. This time the pint was spot on, a good colour with a sharp edge to its flavour. Snack food looked attractive, with ciabattas, shepherds pie, lasagne, and omelettes coming in at less than £5. The grander blackboard was rather unambitious and, for the area, in the higher price bracket. B&B, however, is a modest £25 a night. You win some, you lose some. The bar had been quietly active when we entered, but it was soon taken over by a funeral party. Funeral “party” in modern England is the exact word, and these “celebrations” of the deceased lives is a welcome change from the grim and grey rituals of my youth.
We set off up the road back to Luxborough, past a fish farm in the valley bottom, until we came to Langridge Wood. Here we took the second path on the left up into the pines, and climbed steeply through the dark conifers until we broke out into the light. Here our runners suddenly appeared again, jogging downwards without a puff between them. I hoped that they had lunched on two all-day breakfasts washed down with pints of Guinness, but I suspect that they had pecked on some mess of pottage, potent with protein and energy and sealed in plastic boxes, which had been secreted in their knapsacks. We recrossed our morning’s path again above Lower Court Farm but this time turned down into Druids Combe, pungent with the warm spicy scent of bracken and fir. The track took us painlessly back into Luxborough along a lane, stream-bordered with bridges leading into each cottage garden.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks - A Nine Mile Walk from Robbers Bridge to the Culbone Stables Inn

2008-06-20T08:01:00.000-07:00

On this walk it is worth remembering throughout Sir Isaac Newton’s most famous and comforting discovery – “What goes up, must come down.” We parked at the spacious and very empty Robber’s Bridge car park, on your right as you approach the bridge after leaving the Porlock-Lynton road. Trippers have just enough room to abandon their vehicles adjacent to the bridge itself. Thus they save themselves the short walk to admire the view up Weir Water as it tumbles over a stone step and through the arch.
We crossed the bridge and walked on down the lane to Oareford. Just before you reach the Old School House, there is a footbridge on the right which leads to the bridleway to North Common. A steep and narrow grassy path climbed ever upwards with sentries of foxgloves standing stiff amongst the heather, now just beginning to flower into purple and blue. Just as we were beginning to doubt Sir Isaac’s word, we reached the stile to the Common. It was a sunny morning after a day’s rain, and the view behind us up to Great Tom’s Hill and beyond was slashed by light and shade.
The climb over the Common was an easy one and a track led us on past stubby thorn trees and then through open heath to the A39. We turned left for a few yards before crossing the main road and following the bridle path signed towards Broomstreet Farm. Over the crest we found the sea stretched blue below us with the Welsh coast clearly visible beyond.

We soon reached the junction with the South West Coastal Path and turned right along the grassy path which led past Broomstreet Farm, one of the several candidates for the house where the poem “Kubla Khan” came to Coleridge in a reverie, before the fatal interruption by the “Man from Porlock” reduced a narcotic epic to a mere fragment. The other places which bid for the honour, Silcombe and Ash farms, are a little further east. For much of its length here, the coastal path runs between high grassy banks, and so the sea is only visible at gaps and gateways. The hedgerows, however, often meet to create long, shadowy tunnels of green which have a charm all of their own. Silcombe Farm is an unusual building with walls of hanging tiles, holding on by their fingertips when the winter gales rush up Silcombe Combe from the sea.

Beyond the farm we took the path which led down into the Withy Combe woods towards Culbone Church. The way through the ancient woodland eventually passes the church, and we turned off the path and into the churchyard with its prominent cross, which the unsympathetic elements have aged quickly since it was erected in the 1960’s. The church, which may or may not be the smallest in England, is certainly a peaceful sanctuary with Anglo-Saxon origins, a stream rushing noisily by, and a splendid box pew for the Lovelace family.

We hiked on downhill through Yearnor Wood until the ancient woodland began to change into a derelict arboretum with varied species of trees, laurels, and even a huge, bushy fuchsia. Benches and bits of litter announced that we were approaching Porlock Weir, and a ruined folly and some eccentric tunnels indicated that there must have been some great house in the area. There had been - Ashley Combe House, an Italianate mansion which had been built by a Lovelace who had married a sister to Lord Byron. The tunnels, supposedly, were to conceal the trades people as they trekked up to the house from Porlock, thus preventing them from spoiling the view from the house. Ah well, time wreaks its own revenges and the crumbling edifice was torn down just after the War.
We emerged from the woods at the Worthy Tollhouse, an unusual thatched cottage with an arched gateway which leads to the Worthy Toll Road. We passed through the gate, declined to pay the £1.50 toll presumably intended for motors and, with no sign of a troll to extract some form of due, started to climb the metalled road which would take us to the Culbone Stables Inn.
It is well worth keeping the image of Sir Isaac Newton before you as you climb the road with its stream on your left roaring towards Porlock Bay. From the tollhouse to the pub is an 1,250 feet climb, and you will have deserved your pint by the time you get there. At Yearnor Mill Bridge, where a path dives off the road down towards Porlock Weir, we looked back to see a sign which yelled at our sweating selves, “No Horses! No Walkers!”, referring presumably to the toll road. It received that two-fingered gesture popular with free Englishmen ever since the archers at Agincourt indicated to the French knights that they had all their digits ready for action. There had been no companion sign at the foot of the road. Perhaps, one is allowed to walk up, but not down. It would be a suitably silly restriction on a road which sees a vehicle only once in a blue moon.
We plugged on up what was now a public road. The lane to Pitt Farm does not permit access to a bridleway which would have taken us to the summit, but the views on the road are to die for all the same.

As we neared our goal, a path to the right would have taken us to the Culbone Stone, an early Christian monument. Sadly, we had beer, not religion, on our minds and we strode on towards the main road on the ridge. The pub was directly opposite on the other side of the road.

The Culbone Stables Inn is a project of the David family from Porlock. Famous for its butcher’s shop with its home-killed meat, the David clan has branched out into a fresh fish business and the pub, and recently has refurbished and reopened the Castle Hill Hotel at Dunster. The Culbone Stables Inn is very much modern, spick and span, pub chic. There are wonderful views towards Robbers Bridge from the terrace and some of the tables inside. The furnishings are new wood and leather for the numerous tables laid up for eating and, if you want to sit down and just drink, you do so in deep, leather sofas and armchairs. Beers were Exmoor, St Austell, and Taunton. Taunton was new to us and so we obviously chose that. Sadly, it was cloudy and sour. When I took our glasses back, a check was made on the barrel and it was confirmed that it was down to the lees. Without fuss and bother, two excellent glasses of Exmoor Ale were provided in exchange. The food on the blackboards is, understandably, sourced from the David butchery. Mr David Senior came in while we were there and ate his own lunch. The meat has the highest reputation and a price to match. For those who in these days of government warnings on hypertension and high cholesterol see eating as a political act, there is a well-hung 32 ounce T-bone steak at £16. A signature moment came when a harassed motorist invaded the bar, claiming that someone leaving the car park had driven into him but hadn’t stopped. Could the bar staff identify him if he was local? “We don’t have any locals,” was the reply.
The path back to Robbers Bridge runs round the back of the pub. After the Himalayan climb up the Worthy Toll Road, it was a joy to amble back down the hillside and catch a final omigod view. In the car park I tidied up a fast food box complete with its white plastic fork and several sodden tissues. At least some people had bothered to park and walk to the bridge. Or perhaps they had parked for some other mysterious purpose?

Exmoor Pubs & Walks - A Ten Mile Walk from Dunkery to the Lion at Timberscombe

2008-06-07T05:13:00.000-07:00

This route would appear to be, as we would say in the West Country, “arse back’ards.” Starting with a lengthy descent from one of Exmoor’s highest points and away from its most famous skyline does appear slightly dotty. Remember, however, that our major objective is to end up in a pub, and the Dunkery region is a desert in this respect.
There is no harm, either, in being able to start from a National Park car park. Dumping your vehicle where you will not irritate both fellow drivers and local farmers can be a sticky problem on the Moor. We abandoned our truck in the park intended for trippers making a final, bold assault on Dunkery Beacon, and perversely set off in the opposite direction down the bridle path towards Wootton Courtenay. It was a lovely sunny day with a north westerly wind to clear the air. There are wonderful views away to the Bristol Channel, and you can see the whole of your walk mapped out in front of you. To your left is the hog’s back which runs between Wootton Courtenay and Dunster, and to your right is the vale which leads to Timberscombe.
Not far down the track, typical of the Dunkery region, rough with clusters of loose stone, we passed a ride coming the other way; the insouciant guide in an old check flat cap and his charges in their crash helmets, plonking along happily on the stable’s safest conveyances. A little further on a herd of a dozen hinds crossed our path and loitered for a moment, frozen on the skyline. The path eventually entered some woodland and led down to the lane at Brockwell which takes you along towards Wootton Courtenay.

Wootton Courtenay is a spick and span little village with smart chichi properties and both a shop and a church. We walked through the village and, after passing the church, struck off left up a steep footpath through a meadow. At the top there was a grand view of the village and the way we had come, and then we climbed the stile into woodland leading on to the top of Wootton Common. You need to ignore any path which is not uphill, and then your efforts will be rewarded by gaining the broad path which runs along the ridge of the Common. (The Macmillan Way “Mac” signs here seem to have been put up for those travelling from east to west only.)

There are grand views to both sides of the path, particularly towards the Bristol Channel, whose charms are probably best appreciated at a distance. From Wootton Common even I, who spent five testing boyhood years at a prep school in Burnham-on-Sea, may sympathise with Coleridge’s vision of “deep romantic chasms” on the Severn estuary. We surprised an enormous grass snake, asleep in the middle of the path, which slid away into the bracken. When the woodland on your right becomes conifers, you turn right and walk down through the woods until a farm track tips you out into the lane. A cheery gentleman on a bicycle politely confirmed that we should turn right. No wonder he looked so smug on his wheels. A few yards further on we came across his jogging wife puffing along behind him. We took the next left away from Wootton Courtenay and walked along a narrow lane until, turning right on to the main Minehead to Wheddon Cross road just past a cricket ground, we came to Timberscombe.

An unassuming passageway leads you into the pleasant, narrow bar of the Lion Inn. This is a pub which caters as much for locals as tourists with a games room with a pool table and a skittle alley. As well as the usual battery of electric pumps, there is St Austell’s “Proper Job” in addition to the more common “Tribute”. We had enjoyed “Proper Job” previously at Wood’s Bar in Dulverton, and did not hesitate to down two more pints each in the “Lion” where it is very well kept and served cellar cool. “Proper Job” is very much in the St Austell style of lemony, fruity, off-sweet ales, and makes a change from the sharper, hoppy bitters of the Exmoor brewery. There is an extensive lunch and evening menu. There are some original fillings for inexpensive ciabattas for a light lunch, and plenty of mains around the £7 mark, to be enjoyed in an attractive room off the bar with scrubbed tables. Sitting at the bar enjoying our liquid lunch, we decided that our project should extend itself to having supper in the pubs where the food looked really attractive. A further report on the Lion’s grub will follow in due course.
We stepped out into the sunlight and made our way westwards out of the village until turning into a broad path which ran behind the village school playing field. The path crossed the main road and led us over a footbridge across the rushing River Avill and through the fields by a well-worn path back to Wootton Courtenay. When we reached a lane on the edge of the village, we turned right but soon turned left up a shaded path between high hedges. Soon another path crossed at right angles and we turned left up some steps before emerging on to a large playing field with a traditional wooden pavilion. What exactly the sporting element of Wootton Courtenay plays there remains a mystery although the position of the well-tended square of grass meant it couldn’t be for cricket. Anyone for tennis, perhaps? There were no white lines to help us in our quest. The path led into the next field where there was a windsock and a neatly mown runway for some local Biggles.
Where the path ended in a lane, we turned left and almost immediately right, and we were back on the moor proper. Soon we had passed through the woodland and rejoined the track leading back towards the Dunkery summit. Here the arse-backards nature of the expedition became somewhat daunting. It’s a steepish climb, especially at the end of the day with two pints of Proper Job swashing about inside you. When necessary, stop on the pretence of admiring the superb views.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks - The Sportmans

2008-06-02T07:48:00.000-07:00

It took us almost thirty years to get inside the door of the Sportsmans but it’s been worth the wait. One wet Sunday in the early 1980’s we set out for a walk on the moor with the Sportmans as our watering hole objective. It was a miserable morning and, as we negotiated bogs, barbed wire fences, and the odd dead sheep, the only thing that kept us going was the thought of a pint at a pub new to us, the Sportsmans Inn at Sandyway. The nearer we came, the thicker the fog came down. In my soggy misery I cherished a vision of a cosy bar, a roaring fire with a few ruddy-faced farmers warming their bums, the winking of polished horsebrasses, mine host ready with a pint of the foaming... The last misty half-mile was along a straightish road which we now know so well and at last there it was, the Sportsmans!
It was derelict. The empty windows gaped like the eyes of a skull and the roof sagged. It was as if the army of the Visigoths had passed through and stopped to eat their sandwiches. There’s nothing more depressing than a closed pub, and it’s a rare miracle if they ever open again. Happily, that’s not the case at the Sportsmans, which is now in the capable hands of father and son, Graham and Martin Macro. Graham mans the bar while Martin cooks. The Sportsmans enjoys a loyal local trade, and there’s plenty of room at the bar and on the settles next to the woodburner for drinkers to lean and sit and gas. The remainder of the main room is given over to restaurant tables, while a function room runs parallel to it. The Macros, when they bought this remote pub high up on the moor between North Molton and Withypool, had reconciled themselves in winters to shutting up the pub except for a snug for locals. In fact, they have developed an all-year-round trade based on their function room with a popular Sunday lunchtime carvery, quiz nights in support of local good causes, skittle matches, and pool tournaments.
Draught beers are Exmoor Fox and St Austell. The food is excellent value. Starters like broccoli and stilton soup or whitebait are £3. Mains like the excellent steak and kidney suet pudding are £8. A steak is £10. Unlike some pub blackboards, the Sportsman’s is always changing and full of surprises, often with an oriental flavour. We once had smashing spring rolls as a starter. Puds are £4. If you eat that dreadful meal, Sunday lunch - to me a cooked midday meal is one of the most miserable rituals of European civilisation - the carvery will cost you £7. The selection of vegetables is always more than generous. You won’t leave the Sportsmans hungry or poor, and you won’t go home, as I did once after eating at one of the locality’s most celebrated restaurants, and eat a banana to fill the gaps.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks - Nine Mile Walk Around Wimbleball Lake

2008-05-15T05:17:00.001-07:00

Walking the Wimbleball Lake would hardly appear much of a challenge, either athletically or aesthetically. The reservoir was created in the 1970's, and this artificial tongue of water would seem almost out of place in an area where natural streams and their valleys are so much part of the landscape. On the penultimate day of the May "heatwave", however, it provided a very pleasant and easy walk, and allowed us to discover the delights of "The George" at Brompton Regis. We parked at an unsigned carpark at Bessom Bridge, mainly used by anglers. The signs will try to seduce you into parking at the main park on the western shore of the lake, where there are such delights as boat hire, camping, and cream teas.

We walked clockwise around the lakeshore circular path. You can't miss your way, of course, and you could do it in sandals if you wished. In mid May, however, there is much to enjoy. There are waves of bluebells in the woodland, and I saw the back of a rapidly disappearing fox in West Hill Wood. When the path climbs away from the shore, there are lovely views through the trees down to the water.

When we came to the dam, a grey and sinister construction as dams often are, we left the lakeshore and followed the concrete roadway to Hartford. Reaching the lane, we turned right and walked up through the pleasant cottages and farms at Venn and thus into Brompton Regis. On a hot and sunny morning, not even a dog stirred in the village.

We took a path to the side of the church past the restored parish lockup and came out by the pub. On its sign is the much and unfairly maligned George III. A long, white, plain building, the pub has a very attractive timbered bar for drinking or eating, with a further dining area attached. A low french window leads out into the garden which has attractive views to Haddon Hill.

As usual we had a liquid lunch out of a glass. From the array of pumps, you could have the usual Exmoor or St Austell, but we chose Sharps from Cornwall for the sake of change. Sharps is not for every taste - sharp by name and sharp by nature some people feel - but the very well-kept pint at the "George" showed its tangy, bitter flavour at its best.

For those who like their lunch on a plate, and there were quite a few even on a Tuesday, there is plenty to choose from. There were two blackboards of specials as well as a lunchtime snacks menu. Starters were a fiver, mains came in at less than a tenner, and a pudding was four quid. Like Dracula, we only eat after dark, but what we saw encouraged us to plan to come back for supper in the near future. We were not disappointed when we did. We both enjoyed the game paté, and the salmon hollondaise and the scampi which followed. Vegetables were good and plentiful, and the prices were reasonable.

We walked back through the village and over Bryants Hill to Bessom Bridge, passing Pulhams Mill with its craftshop and tearoom on the way.

Exmoor Pubs & Walks - Seven Mile Walk From Winsford to Bridgetown and Back

2008-05-08T08:04:00.000-07:00

Our objective is to walk to every pub on Exmoor in which we have never had a drink. This is quite a tall order despite the number that we have been in over the past thirty years. We had never been in the Badgers Holt at Bridgetown and, as my wife, Sheila, was looking to break in her feet and boots after a winter's hunting, a short sprint from Winsford seemed ideal. Even on a Tuesday in May the car park at Winsford was almost full by 11 o' clock. We set off past the Royal Oak with its thatchers hard at work and past the Karslake Hotel. The latter when we first knew Exmoor was a tearoom, in which no table nor chair matched, nor had four legs on the ground at any one time. The cream teas then were to die for, but now it is a smart restaurant with rooms, and an AA rosette for its restaurant and with prices to match.

We climbed up Halse Lane until it turns sharp right, and there took the track known as Yellowcombe Lane. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, and Yellowcombe Lane is a pleasant climb up a mainly dry track with views of Winsford behind you and then through woodland with patches of bluebells and a valley view to the left. There are wild flowers everywhere now - violets and wild garlic, and thick patches of comfrey and white deadnettle. Eventually you come to Yellowcombe Cottage on the right of the track, seemingly marooned in the middle of nowhere. How did they get their furniture up there? Here we crossed a stream and continued up through the woodland with the stream to our right. Eventually the path becomes a steep pull before it emerges through a gate into a grassy meadow with views of moorland at Winsford Hill away to your right. A turn to the left quickly takes you to Leigh Lane at Summerway but, after turning right, its only a short distance before you turn left into the fields again, following a tractor-rutted track with views away to Dunkery on your left.

The bridleway soons turns sharp right and takes you straight downhill, eventually into a sunken track. It levels out as you approach a stream where there is a clamorous pumping station for no obvious purpose and, above you on your left, a ruined cottage. The plan was to walk to Broford Farm Buildings before circling to our left into Redcleeve Plantation, but we missed our gate to the right and were in the forestry before we realised our mistake. When we retraced our steps, the bridleway sign was plain enough, pointing up a huge grass field with no discernible path. Enclosures of agri-industry proportions are rare in this part of the world but the way was obvious, keeping a new fence on our left as we climbed up over the steep hill, and through gates down to the farm buildings at Broford.

Here we turned left and, where the farm lane turned right down to Broford Farmhouse, we went straight on through a horse paddock and on across a field with cattle in it to the gate into Redcleeve Plantation. The aim was to walk through the forestry and follow the way to Hollam Farm, which in turn would lead us to Bridgetown. As all walkers know, the ways through forestry are always changing as new access tracks are cut for machinery, but all seemed well until we reached a valley floor where there was ford and a footbridge near some forestry buildings. Here we made a fatal mistake. After crossing the stream, we turned left and followed the bank of the stream up an attractive, grassy valley which we assumed would lead to Hollam Farm. It was now after 1 o'clock and, just as we were becoming a little anxious, a building appeared above a ridge. Hollam Farm? It was our ruined cottage again, and the realisation that we had walked round in a circle was accompanied by the mocking clatter of the pumping station.

We hurriedly retraced our steps. In future, the path back down the valley would make an ideal alternative to the rather unappealing way round Broford, but our only concern now was whether we would make the Badgers Holt before closing time. Just after our fatal left turn there was a sign for Hollam Farm, and we followed a metalled road up a steep hill until it led straight up to the farm. Cautiously we took a track to the left, but this only led us into the farm buildings where we set kennels of spaniels barking, their owner confirming that the footpath proper followed the metalled road straight up to the farmhouse.

The lane away from the farm took us to a gate which led straight to Bridgetown Plantation, with the eponymous village and the Badgers Holt clearly visible below us. We missed the official way to the edge of the village, and had to clamber over some sheep netting to make the lane which led to the bridge over the Exe and to the main road.

It was five minutes past two. The door, however, to the pub was firmly locked. Just inside it a customer sat at a table tucking into his lunch but our rattling the lock brought no response from anyone within. We stood in the road, hot, thirsty, and vengeful. Suddenly mine host appeared. Person or persons unknown had tripped the Yale lock. The pub was still open.

We leaned on the bar, looking for all the world like John Mills and co in the climactic scene of "Ice Cold In Alex". Like so many pubs on Exmoor, the Badgers Holt features beers from the Exmoor Brewery at Wiveliscombe. Of the three on offer, we ordered a pint of "Stag" each. "Stag" is over 5% in strength, and hardly a lunchtime beer for walkers with a few more miles still to go, but only a minority of pubs stock it and we were in the mood for a treat. It was perfectly kept and served cellar cool. We are not great lunchers, and last food orders were by 2 o'clock, but the Badgers Holt has plenty to keep midday eaters happy. Sandwiches, baguettes, and baked potatoes with the usual variety of fillings are less than a fiver. Starters are in the same range and most mains are less than a tenner. There's a blackboard for daily specials and puds come in at a little more than £3. The Badgers Holt doesn't have the rustic charm of, say, the "Royal Oak" at Withypool, but the beer's good, there's a wide choice of food at reasonable prices, and it's the village pub for Bridgetown and Exton with quizzes and a darts board. Keith, the affable landlord, is a refugee from science teaching in Hornchurch. Good luck to him!

We recrossed the bridge and turned right into the bridleway which leads to Coppleham Cross with the Exe flowing on your right. You need to stay in the fields as long as they allow, as the track becomes pretty mucky eventually. When we reached the road that leads back into Winsford, we crossed it and, taking the footpath between the houses, climbed up a steep hill and down the other side to enter Winsford via West Howetown.