The Wondrous Burden of the Dartmoor Enthusiast

One of the great mysteries of my unremarkable existence, and truly, I mean great in the sense of 'perplexing' rather than 'splendid', is the remarkable ease with which I manage to convince otherwise sensible individuals to listen to me go on, and on, about Dartmoor Photography. I am, to put it mildly, a menace to camera clubs far and wide. Picture it: hapless souls, tucked away in village halls up and down the country, forced to sit through what must be an Olympic level parade of Tors. More images of granite outcrops than any sane person could possibly require. And yet, for reasons that frankly baffle both me and probably the professional psychiatric community, they endure my over enthusiastic musings.

Now, here is where the story takes a turn toward the utterly unbelievable. My droning and the accompanying cavalcade of rocks apparently served as a siren song, a peculiar, moorland-scented siren song, to Brian and Sue, who promptly decided to haul themselves all the way from the reliably sunny (or so I imagine) flatlands of Norfolk to our gloriously lumpy corner of the globe.

The pressure, as you can imagine, was palpable. I was the hype-man, the enthusiastic amateur, and now I had two highly skilled photographers looking to me for inspiration. A quick snap of the high street, the obligatory local Co-op, perhaps, was simply not going to cut the mustard. The usual guaranteed winner, Brentor Church at sunrise, was a non-starter; late October dawns tend to be a sort of monochromatic grey that would make a tax auditor look cheerful.

A frantic rummage through the mental archive, then, and a new plan was hatched: Shaugh Prior. A place so ridiculously saturated with colour and interest that the local tourist board really ought to be cutting it a hefty commission. I’d struck gold. It turned out Brian was the sort of man who liked to get right down into the earthy muck of things, finding particular joy in the fungal riots that seemed to spawn from every mossy log. Sue, meanwhile, took a wider, more expansive view, quietly soaking up the genuinely riotous palette Mother Nature had splashed along the riverbank.

We wandered for what felt like a mere handful of minutes, it was, in point of fact, a good couple of hours and by the end, I had two very happy 'snappers.' Memory cards bulging with scenes of genuine beauty, it was time to hand Dartmoor's newest converts back over to the national infrastructure. The pressure was off. The granite had performed its magic.

I must say, after all that, I felt I’d earned my stripes. Perhaps I should just send the National Park my CV. After all, if I can lure people away from Norfolk, what can't I do?

From Screen to Summit: My Dartmoor Photography & Wild Camp Experience

For two solid days, I had been engaged in what felt like an Olympic staring contest with my computer monitor. My eyes, normally a dashing shade of blue (if I do say so myself), had taken on the distinct hue of an undercooked hot dog. The culprit? A recent commission to photograph a musical theatre production by the rather brilliantly LS Drama workshops. Now, when confronted with such talent, one naturally becomes a bit, shall we say, enthusiastic with the camera. The upshot of this enthusiasm was a colossal pile of digital negatives, each demanding my undivided attention across various bits of editing software, where I agonized over details so minuscule they'd make a gnat feel like a sumo wrestler.

Emerging from my "man cave" – which, at this point, more closely resembled a troglodyte's dwelling – with eyes blazing red and a spine curved like a question mark, it became abundantly clear that fresh air wasn't just a suggestion, it was a medical necessity. Hunching over a glowing screen for 48 hours straight is hardly the ideal training regimen for tackling Dartmoor. And the 1.5-mile ascent (yes, I did measure it, mostly out of a burgeoning sense of self-pity) to Great Mis Tor hammered that point home with the subtlety of a runaway train. Mercifully, about two-thirds of the way up, you encounter Little Mis Tor, a sort of granite amuse-bouche, a charming little foretaste designed to spur you on to the main course.

After a good deal of huffing and puffing, all performed under the utterly disdainful gaze of the local woolly spectators (who, incidentally, seemed far too comfortable with vertical living), I finally arrived. As is often the case at this time of year, I was not, in fact, alone on the Tor. A small, suspiciously verdant tent was pitched perilously close to my initial target. Ambling about outside was an individual whose entire sartorial ensemble had the unmistakable whiff of "fresh off the rack." He was engaged in a rather vigorous mobile phone conversation and, upon spotting me, determined I simply had to be informed he was speaking to his wife. I can only assume my sweaty, bedraggled appearance, enormous rucksack, and rather intimidating tripod had unnerved him sufficiently to warrant the swift production of a digital alibi. My personal theory? He was a London reporter, dutifully churning out the annual "wild camping on Dartmoor is a must-do this summer" piece, conveniently omitting the bit about needing to spend the equivalent of a small mortgage on gear before venturing out.

Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, I retreated a safe distance, clambered up the nearest tor, and set up my camera. This entire operation, I couldn't help but notice, was being meticulously narrated back into his phone, presumably for the benefit of either his wife or his editor. Sunset achieved, it was time for a bit of ninja-like descent, a stealthy retreat before I could be roped into an impromptu interview. Who knows, the next time you pick up the Sunday supplements, a compelling article about the "Wild Man of Dartmoor" might just be gracing the center spread.