The Two Moors Way
Two moors we knew, divided Devon,
Like jilted lovers cast from heaven,
They, poles apart from north to south
Had tempted us by word of mouth.
Joined stitch by stitch by artist’s hand
Joe Turner’s sweat had sewed the land
A map emerged which furrowed inland.
From Devon’s boot on heel of England.
At dawn we two began to tread,
Like smugglers without home nor bed.
A southern wind, whose gracious whisper
Pointed us upon the path.
We started on the Lynmouth side,
The esplanade harpooned the tide
And moon and mice and men had flown
Though not yet were we all alone.
The start had layn like fixed cement,
No time to dwell on sad lament,
The sky, the very ancient witness,
Which stretched out east to test our fitness.
Cross Exmoor and its boggy mires.
The land’s lined brow did frown there on
The fickle soul who chanced upon.
Without a thought for preparation,
Nor hint of any navigation.
Fleet of foot we were that day,
The gulls soon chased us on our way.
Whose swoops would set the scene for play.
For they, they knew it in their wings.
Directing us upon the winds,
Our spirits could not deny the thrill
Of relearning what we’ve long forgot.
That bogs are dry until they’re not.
High above Myrtleberry Cleave, we climbed,
From Watersmeet, cross A39.
With rivers ahead to bathe our feet,
First John the Baptist’s church would greet.
Cheriton Ridge led on to Simonsbath
To Hoaroak water, which we hoped to pass,
There are two spots when water’s high,
To cross the county border line
Towards the now notorious Chains.
Whose jaws will have a runner’s shoe
And then come back, to make it two.
The Exe, the Lyn and Barle start here,
Close by the sight of nervous deer.
Where stags at dawn hung up the sky
Fixing us with downward eye
With silhouettes afore the blaze.
To Simonsbath we set our gaze.
Past Exmoor Inn, of royal descent,
A place to quench your thirst or mend
A broken pole or short supplies.
Then on towards the River Barle.
Two routes we had on either side
The muddy north, our choice of pride.
We crossed the bridge at Withypool,
Whose sign invited us to cross’.
A friend’s rejoiner tween two times
Of pilgrim’s pains and what remains.
At Tarr Inn we breached the 17 steps
Of granite weathered to a crust.
Whose paper story, wafer thin
Beckoned with wordless offering.
Along the bridlepath through Knappwood wood.
Once coppiced, spruced and hedged.
Where gifts to nature once were pledged
All earth and wood and trees which stood
Still pointing south to Hawkridge and St Giles
Where Tom Lock’s hands defined the miles,
The gate of Exmoor, we had reached.
Through West Anstey Common’s reddish dye,
Past shooting parties, bagging birds.
With carrion and more lucky throngs,
Their feathers blown by four winds lie
Between hedgerows, marked by trackway dongs.
At Owlaborough moor;
A woody omen stood bent over
Its sculpted form had half its leaves
We took it like a five leafed clover
A talisman who if its boughs agreed
On another day should we return
To these same fields beside the ferns.
Providence will offer all we need.
But what of our four runner’s legs
With strength to lift 1000 kegs
At least until the dregs had gone
We moved along, along, along.
A roundhouse near, now mausoleum
Of that which was once threshed here,
The grain it grainethed every day!
Until no more on one fine day.
To Knowstone now, which we knew well
We’d been before but could not tell
If pubs which spelleth Michellin
Forbade our windblown frames within.
A bag of nuts or some such treat?
The Mason’s Arms were closed
Permitting only those well clothed
No Exmoor ‘meat’ upon their feet.
On planks built over culm grass bogs,
Sliding beneath the A361
We wished not to set our eyes upon.
To Backstone Cross, the old toll road
Unburdened us to rest our load.
On pork pies, coke and carbs we gorged
New memories of food were forged
On what was needed, not just wanted,
A lust for life that’s not been blunted
By comforts that have come for granted.
Let’s not here dither for a minute,
To consider what has come before,
For fortunes which are left to quiver
Will not last long upon the moor.
Past farmyards, churches and thatched hamlets
We ran, through lovely Devon vignettes
Cross commons, fields and wooded tracks
We withered towards the withered heights.
To Witheridge on feet of clay,
Where socks were changed near end of day.
The sun it waved us on our way.
As the moon took turns on graveyard shift.
Head torches gave us needed lift.
Mid Devon, whose tarmac lanes we’d feared
Wound down south as Dartmoor reared.
A sign to torment in black and white
Three score and eight on, to Ivybridge,
A blight to those without prior knowledge.
Such news we had in dimming light.
But let’s not settle on the past
For every runner’s backwards glance
Reveals more about what is ahead
With weary head and legs of lead.
The Old Coach road which once stood here
From Barnstaple to Exeter.
Through Morchard Bishop, the half way mark
Skewering two fine National Parks.
Now maps, their uses are but none,
Til from the ridge you look upon,
The two horizons fore and after,
We heard here first, woodpecker’s laughter.
Rich red soils define the fields,
Reminding us of their fine yields.
And leafs of gold, which hide the Muxy
Of old wagon trails all red and waxy.
From Hittisleigh cross to Cosdon Hill
You’ll see your next journey’s start begin
Past Knowstone did we homeward fling,
Our limbs still twitchy could not still,
As buzzards circled us on wing.
There’s something in this blessed path
Where stories long forgot, revive
Time keeps pilgrim’s ghosts alive,
With past and present’s aftermath.
Hour after hour, after hour, after hour,
O’er combes and brooks and tor and leat
Our endless trot became our path
Our shadows hedged between our feet.
Two ways to choose at Howard Barton
Then from Whelstone Cross, over the tracks
And rested here our weary backs.
On old Okehampton freight train line;
Another relic from before
When Dartmoor was a gothic moor.
The boundary was a modern thing
The A30 has a park within
Drewsteignton bore us up a hill
In to a pub with laughter shrill
An easy place to too long linger
Especially in the depths of winter.
Ahead lay landmarks known to none,
As Two Moors Way became Just one.
On granite legs we pattered on.
And on and on and on and on.
Above the upper valley, Teign,
The gates of Dartmoor permit entry
With Castle Drogo keeping sentry
A rhododendron track therein.
To Chagford now and smells anew
And homes which beckon for a brew
The laughter from within can teach
That in a few hours, home’s in reach.
The place you’ve longed for all along.
Once more back on open land
A road to take you to Fernworthy
Near where bronze aged stones still stand
Past another homely inn,
The Warren House, whose fire within
On peat survives like paraffin.
Over Grimpstone where Sir Conan Doyle
Once camped and wrote of Baskerville
A bronze aged circle neath a hill
Then up and over Hameldown
Whose ridge outlines a boundary limit
Looking down on Widecombe town
No people and no life were in it.
In dead of night we saw a figure;
Running t’ward us through the black.
Who brought supplies of food and light
And giving us the things we lacked.
We ran through Jordan and to the Drive
Where Doctor Blackall carved an alley,
Above the snaking Dart whose valley
Led us down to New Bridge, then through Holne
Our legs as stiff as boards revived.
Up through Scorriton to Pupers Hill
A tortuous climb was waiting still.
Across the clapper bridge and Avon
We stooped, our hands upon our thighs
But soon, a sight for startled eyes.
At dawn, a very warming sight,
To greet us three in new day light.
A town whose name’s our destination
At Ivybridge there was a station
With a platform where we could alight.
Puffing up the puffing billy track
Whose gauges bore the load, we strode.
Leaning towards a favoured tavern
Hellbent on quenching our relief
To end what had become our grief.
There is no moral in this tale,
No Aesop’s fable writ within,
It is a very simple thing
To silence all our doubts within.
Now rest your weary, battered feet
And do not ask them to repeat.
Until you’ve forgot this refrain
And then it’s time to start again.