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

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

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

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

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.