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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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.