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.
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.
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.
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.
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