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

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

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

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

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!”