Dartmoor Adventures: Hiking King’s Tor & Encountering Herbal Campervans

Right, well, let's talk about King’s Tor, shall we? You know, the sort of place where good intentions go to die, or at least twist an ankle. Forget your paved roads to perdition; this is more of a "loose rock and existential dread" kind of affair. I've parked nearby more times than I care to admit, gazing at that lumpy track and wondering if, perhaps, birdwatching wouldn't be a more fulfilling hobby. Or competitive napping. Anything, really, that didn't involve the very real possibility of a sprained anything.

And then, of course, there's the whole "daylight savings" debacle. Why, exactly, we decided to collectively mess with the very fabric of time is beyond me. I suspect it's some sort of elaborate prank on the French, though I'm open to other theories. Anyway, the result is that I found myself, late in the day, staring once more at Kings Tor, thinking, "Right, ankles, you ready for this?" I clearly radiated some sort of "lost camper" aura, because every passing walker gave me the kind of look one reserves for someone who's just asked if they sell yak butter at the local Spar.

The real spectacle, however, was a campervan parked halfway up the path. Now, I've seen some creative parking in my time, but this was Picasso-level abstract. It looked like it had been dropped from a helicopter, and was emitting a distinct "lived-in" aroma, which, let's just say, wasn't exactly lavender. Dartmoor parking, as we know, is a bit of a free-for-all, but this was taking the biscuit, and eating it in front of you, and then asking for yours.

Anyway, I soldiered on, determined to get my pictures. And, surprisingly, I did. I even managed to return with a memory card full of images, which, given my general clumsiness, is something of a miracle. The return journey, usually a lonely slog in the gloom, was enlivened by a herd of Dartmoor ponies huddled around an old quarry. They gave me the once-over, clearly disappointed I wasn't carrying bags of carrots. One or two came close, probably hoping for a free back scratch, but I've learned that attempting to provide equine grooming is a risky business, unless you fancy a hoof-shaped souvenir.

Back past the campervan, now smelling distinctly "herbal" – I'm not judging, just reporting – and finally, back to the car. And, you know, I have to admit, despite the ankle-threatening terrain and the olfactory assault from the campervan, I felt a certain sense of accomplishment. Perhaps my road to hell, or at least King’s Tor, isn't quite as paved as I thought. Or perhaps, I'm just getting used to the smell of herbal campervans. Either way, mission accomplished.

Grey Skies, Barking Trolls, and Postbridge: A Photographic Mishap

Well, the weather. Honestly. You'd think the Sky People, or whatever they call themselves up there, had nothing better to do than mess with the likes of us, the lens-toting, sunset-chasing, landscape-obsessed mortals. A glorious, postcard-perfect day, all sapphire skies and fluffy little clouds, just begging to be captured. And then, poof, grey. Just… grey. Like someone had dropped a damp blanket over everything. So, plan B. Naturally.

Plan B, in my case, involved the rather less glamorous, but arguably more entertaining, pursuit of pet photography. You know, those close-ups of furry faces that people inexplicably adore. And, as a delightful side effect, a bit of location scouting. Postbridge. Ah, Postbridge. That charming little clapper bridge. A place I'd promised myself I’d capture, oh, years ago, and which had, frankly, started to resemble a permanent fixture in shot list itself, rather than a subject to be photographed. It had, as they say, taken root.

So, with a photographic itch that was positively demanding to be scratched, Sarah, Winnie (the dog), and myself set off for a spot of what I like to call "shutter therapy." Now, Winnie, being a seasoned professional in the art of dog-posing, one would think she’d have this whole thing down pat. But no. On this particular evening, the allure of the river, and the prospect of dragging Sarah into it, proved far too compelling.

And thus, the scene. Picture, if you will, a middle-aged chap, me, crouching by the bridge, looking for all the world like a particularly disheveled troll. Camera in one hand, flash in the other, meowing and barking in a desperate attempt to command the attention of a dog that was clearly having none of it. Sarah, meanwhile, was engaged in a Herculean struggle to prevent Winnie from launching herself into the river, while simultaneously trying to avoid being in the frame. It was, shall we say, a spectacle.

I can only offer my deepest apologies to the unsuspecting tourists who, no doubt, had envisioned a serene, picturesque moment by the clapper bridge, perhaps even a selfie or two. Instead, they were treated to a bizarre tableau of animal noises, frantic arm waving, and a dog that seemed intent on aquatic mayhem. They, quite understandably, made a hasty retreat. I can only imagine what the tourist board will say.

Hound Tor

Right, so, you know that feeling? When you escape the urban... blare? The relentless, inescapable, thrum? And suddenly, it's just you and the gentle, almost apologetic, crunch of boots on frost? It’s a bit like finding a tenner in an old coat, isn’t it? Pure, unadulterated, yes.

Today, Dartmoor, that vast, windswept, sheep-infested expanse, was promising a spectacle. Or at least, I hoped it was. The sun, bless her heart, was doing her best impression of a startled tomato, turning the horizon a rather alarming shade of crimson. The air, as they say, was crisp. Crisp enough to snap a carrot, you’d think.

Ah, Hound Tor. A place of... memories. Mostly bad. You see, a couple of years back, I’d had the bright idea of visiting in the dead of night. And, as is my wont, I managed to drop my phone. In the dark. On Dartmoor. Finding a mobile phone on Dartmoor at 2am is a bit like trying to find a specific grain of sand on a beach in the Sahara. It's not impossible, just deeply, profoundly, annoying. So, naturally, I’ve always held a bit of a grudge against the place. Which, let’s be honest, is a bit like blaming the pavement for your own clumsiness. But still.

Anyway, armed with the collective wisdom of the internet (which, let’s face it, is a bit like taking medical advice from a parrot), I’d decided I wanted to capture the sunrise from a particular angle. This involved clambering up the side of the Tor, a feat that, it turns out, requires rather more shin than I currently possess. I was, to put it mildly, expressing my displeasure. Loudly. In what might be described as a colourful, if somewhat repetitive, vocabulary. Perhaps this is why they call it the “Blue Hour”? Because of the air turning blue with, shall we say, enthusiastic language?

Having reached my designated spot, I promptly decided I’d made a terrible mistake. The other side, clearly, was where the magic would happen. This necessitated another clamber, resulting in even more scuffed knees and a fresh outpouring of, artistic expression. Eventually, after much fumbling and cursing, I managed to capture something that didn’t look like a blurry smudge.

And then, of course, the retreat. Back down, with less skin than I’d started with, but, crucially, with my phone still safely in my pocket. A small victory, perhaps, but on Dartmoor, small victories are the ones you cling to. Like finding a dry sock at the bottom of a rucksack.

Dartmoor Dawn: A (Slightly) Frozen Fiasco

The drive, well, that's a tale in itself. Dartmoor. Easy enough on the A38, all smooth tarmac and reassuringly dull. But then, you veer off. You plunge into the labyrinth of country lanes. These are not your friendly, well-lit suburban streets. These are narrow, winding, hedgerow-choked affairs, the sort where you expect to meet a tractor driven by a man with a suspiciously large turnip. And today? Today, they were lethal. Black ice. The very words send a shiver down the spine. You know the gritters have a very, very long list of priorities, and these lanes are somewhere near the bottom.

And to add to the general sense of impending doom, the sunrise. Oh, the sunrise. It was doing its thing. That glorious, rosy, "you're missing it!" glow. Which, of course, meant I had to drive faster. But also, you know, stay alive. A delicate balance.

Thankfully, I'd planned this expedition with the sort of meticulousness usually reserved for nuclear launch codes. The car park? Practically spitting distance from the cross. A stroll, a gentle amble, a mere saunter to tripod placement. It felt… wrong. No panting, no wheezing, no feeling like I’d just run a marathon up Everest. Even the Dartmoor ponies, those notoriously judgemental beasts, just gave me a casual, "oh, it's just him again," glance.

However, being me, the inner masochist kicked in. “A little walk,” I thought, “a brisk climb up Corndon Tor.” Just to add a bit of suffering to the morning. A bit of, you know, authenticity. So, up I went, pulse doing a passable impression of a frantic tap-dancing team, lungs screaming for mercy. And by the time I'd sorted out a composition, found a vaguely stable rock, and stopped seeing stars, the sun had done its job. It was up. Done. The rosy tint? Gone. Replaced by the harsh, unforgiving light of mid-morning. Another missed opportunity. Another lesson in the fleeting nature of beauty. Maybe next time, I’ll just stay in bed.