Following the Camel Trail (didn't see any camels!)

Once upon a time there was a railway which ran from Padstow inland to Wenford Bridge, a matter of about 18 miles, running alongside the River Camel and carefully engineered to follow the river valley as levelly as possible. Since it ceased to function as a railway back in the 1960s it has been resurrected as a hiking and riding (bike and horse) trail and is hugely popular with visitors to Cornwall. Or at least part of it - the 8 miles from Wadebridge to Padstow, largely along the estuary with views of golden sand and seabirds when the tide is out and the possibility of fish and chips or something posher on the coast at the end of the journey - is hugely popular.

Go the other way, though, and it's a completely different story. Inland from Wadebridge the trail passes mostly through woodland along the river valley, although the river itself is often quite a distance below the path. There are sunny stretches and (welcome) shady patches, birds and flowers and butterflies abounding but hardly any people, and those that we met were well worth meeting.

The day began with one or two minor logistic problems involving motorbikes with dead batteries (lifts can be arranged) and no reservation for lunch (picnics are nice). A somewhat reduced party of four dogs and three humans convened at the car park by the Borough Arms at Dunmere to walk, well, as far as we felt like, really, which turned out to be a nicely appointed picnic area in Shell Woods, just a bit less than five miles from our starting point. Because this end of the trail is so quiet we were not constantly having to marshall dogs at the side of the path out of the way of careering cyclists, and they were freer to explore, dashing down to the river wherever it was possible and generally racing about as they do. At Helland Bridge the path crosses a road, but apart from this it is flat, gently curving and free from hazards all the way.

Since joining our pack the spaniel, Harvey, has become quite adventurous. He has discovered a passion for swimming, and having been taught by the master swimmer, Ty, he follows his favourite technique of barking all the time he is swimming. Which got us into a little bit of trouble, just past Helland Bridge. The dogs had dashed down to the river. Ty and Harvey were swimming (loudly), Jake and Megs were paddling. We were joined on the path by two more people and their three dogs, who also went down to the river to play. Lots of fun was being had by all until a lady on the opposite bank asked us to stop, as the noise was scaring her piglets! Very embarrassing.

We joined packs then for a mile or so, until they turned back and we stopped for our picnic lunch. The return journey passed pleasantly but without incident, although we did try to visit a pottery but it turned out to be shut. We had done almost ten miles in about four hours, including our lunch stop and several dog paddling stops. Nice easy strolling, enough to be tiring but not too exhausting, and on the flat I can keep up quite easily!

We took a slight diversion on the way home to join Ron and the gang at the Inn on the Shore in Downderry. Ty insisted on being taken down to the beach, but when he got there he was quite happy to come back and lie down after five minutes. The beach was quieter than I would have expected, with very few people playing, considering the perfect seaside weather. The sea was looking beautiful, flat and blue and inviting. Sadly, (!) I had forgotten to pack a swimsuit, so I settled for liquid inside on the pub terrace instead of a refreshing swim. So did Ty, so he must have been tired.

Day Out in Somerset

A very long day out, as it happens. Sixteen hours of nonstop activity, and all thoroughly enjoyable. But not my usual sort of thing, not like a normal Saturday at all.

It was a sort of a party; a gathering, anyway, of people from all over the south west of England. From Salisbury and Saltash, Bideford and Bristol, we all converged at a cider farm near Taunton. Entertainment was to be provided, and one of the entertainments was to be bell ringing.

There is a mini belltower, complete with bells, which converts to flatpack for transport and can be taken anywhere. It looks like this when assembled. The problem was that it needed a vehicle large enough to get a 7ft heavy box of bits on the roof and six bells in a frame inside. My car, in other words. So I got up before dawn, walked my dog, fed the birds, had a quick coffee and was on the road at half past eight.

Picked up the organiser in Plymouth, picked up the belltower in Kingsteignton. Was instructed in the method for fitting the bits together like a jigsaw in the case for transporting, but as it was on my roof and above my eyeline I didn't get it all...

And then I drove very slowly and carefully to Three Bridges Farm, where Sheppy's Cider comes from. Because the weight on the roof was all on one side, corners were quite interesting. So, given the total weight of about five tons (perhaps a tad exaggerated, but quite heavy), was going down Telegraph Hill. I was quite glad to get there, to be honest.

A few willing volunteers got it up and running just as easily as I'd been told it would be, and it was a successful part of the day. We also had a talk on bellringing in general which was interesting, a very nice lunch (for 60 in a smallish room) and various other activities, most of which I missed. Although I did try my hand at Smite. A little known (because rarely televised) sport, Smite involves throwing one piece of wood at other named and numbered pieces of wood to achieve a perfect score of 50 and win the game. I'm not very good at it, although other people were pretty impressive. Somebody took a picture:-

After a long and enjoyable afternoon messing about, talking to people I haven't seen for years and some I'd never met before, it was time to disassemble the bell tower for transport home. About ten people helped to take it to bits very quickly, but then spent hours arguing about how to do the jigsaw of getting the bits in the box. We got it wrong, but it was functional. I only had to take it somewhere in Taunton and wait for someone else to come and collect it, but it took hours - long enough to have a meal in the town, then sit watching swifts circling until it got dark and they went to sleep to be replaced by bats - finally it was collected and I could drive home. I arrived at half past twelve, tired and ready to sleep. Ty, however, who had been out with Ron all day running round and going to beaches etc, was worried in case I hadn't been getting enough exercise, and insisted on taking me out for a good walk before bedtime. After he'd had the cookies he deserved for being abandoned, that is.

Oh, it was nice to lie down, when I finally got there...

Summer finally comes to Dartmoor

Not the wildest part of Dartmoor, just the edges, but warm enough for shorts and a shirt for the first time this year. A circular walk, generally gently down on the way there and gently up on the way back, nothing strenuous, lovely after the long day I had yesterday.
We started from the carpark at the edge of Roborough Down, behind the Paperweight Centre in Yelverton. Getting there was a bit of an adventure in itself - as I was driving through Yelverton a large black bird dived into the front passenger window of the car. Luckily (for me) it was shut at the time. Yelverton was full of some sort of cycle event, including tandems and bikes with kids on the back, so I couldn't really stop to check on the state of health of the crow (almost certainly, but possibly jackdaw or rook).
According to the map, the first part of the walk was a National Trail Recreational Route but it wasn't at all obvious, and our leader led us through the gorse bushes with a compass. When we were due to turn off the downs onto a public footpath leading to Buckland Monachorum, we found that the waymarker at the beginning had been deliberately sawn through and cast aside. Which is not good. Even worse, five minutes later, was the discovery that a short section of green lane between two fields was so overgrown as to be almost impassable, especially for the shorts wearers amongst us. One wonders which came first, the removal of the waymarker or the failure to keep the path clear. And is it worth reporting it? Probably, yes...
The path was in better condition further down, although some of the stiles were difficult for the dogs as they had been wired up. Another black mark for the landowner. Ty, who learned the hard way by spending a lot of time on boats, can work out how to get over most obstacles, and he'll also trust me to show him the way by tapping the places I think he should put his feet. Jake, who spent most of his formative years in kennels and didn't know how to get up steps at all when he was first liberated, isn't very agile at all and struggles. He's also the heaviest of the pack. Megs has a tendency not to see the paw traps and sometimes gets caught up. Harvey's a spaniel, with a totally different technique - dig through if possible, if not let yourself be picked up!
We entered Buckland Monachorum from behind the church, which has what seemed an excessively large graveyard for a small village. The village was decked overall in bunting, but it wasn't to welcome us; we'd missed the village fete by a day. A stroll round, a quick visit to the pub (two minutes after opening time) to use their facilities, then upward and onward. Coming out of the village the path leads around the edge of The Garden House. From what we could see by peering over the bridges and through the fence this probably deserves its 'magical' description, but apart from a bit of 'Do you know what that is?' and 'I'd love one of those' we had to pass it by. Going round the garden proper would have taken too long, and, of course, is not free.
After the Garden House we met a lot of horses. Proper horses in small fields, not loose ponies. I'd never seen horses in beekeeping helmets before, but I was informed by someone who knows about horses that they are for the prevention of flies, and can be seen through from the inside perfectly well. I believe this. Ty was several times sniffed by curious horses again, and Micheal was pursued like a pied piper by a couple who wanted to go home with him!
Around Axtown we had a slight diversion. We were following the footpath signs until our leader's trusty compass indicated that we were going in the opposite direction to the way we should be, so we had to backtrack a little and find the right path (not so well signposted) up back to Roborough Down and across to the car park.
For lunch we drove to the 16th century Who'd Have Thought It Inn at Milton Combe. I was intrigued by the blue cheese, spinach and walnut bread and butter pudding, which proved to be delicious, served with an imaginative and delicious salad featuring more walnuts, grapes, apple, cherry tomatoes and green things. It was surprisingly filling too, which was a pity in a way because there was Eton Mess on the dessert menu, and I didn't have room.
After lunch we had another little adventure, driving down to Lopwell, where the River Tavy is dammed to form a reservoir which provides water for Plymouth. Below the dam it's possible at low tide (which it was) to walk across a wall to the salt marsh on the other side. It isn't possible to swim, not even for dogs, although it's possible for spaniels to find quite stinky mud to frolic in, apparently.
And so home, tired, but happy. A lovely summer day out.

A Day by the Sea

Cornwall has got more miles of coastline than any other county, and a coastpath which faithfully follows the ins and outs and ups and downs of it all the way round. I don't suppose I'll ever manage it all, but I walked another little nibble out of the south coast yesterday.

For a late spring bank holiday the weather forecast was pretty dreadful - I took a sunhat, a rainhat, waterproofs and sunblock, not knowing quite what to expect. In the event the weather was bright but breezy, not too warm but with strong enough sun to merit the use of protective measures.

Porthlune Cove was our rendezvous. A popular tourist spot, obviously, with a large carpark. Golden sand in copious quantities, a bit of gentle surf, safe for children to splash about it and that increasing rarity these days, dog friendly. And we had a full complement of friendly dogs. They had a splash and a dash about on the beach but the coastpath beckoned. Which way? East towards Goran Haven, or west to Portholland? In the end we did both, going east first and climbing up to the top of Black Rock to look down on Lambsowden Cove. Back to base then, for a snack in the beach café and another paddle, then west towards Portholland. In both directions the views from the cliff tops were magnificent and the flora interesting, although probably not very pleasant for hayfever sufferers; we could actually see the clouds of pollen rising from the meadows as we walked through!

There was one puddle in the car park when we arrived, and a large group of martins were determined to take full advantage of the building material it provided. The arrival of cars didn't put them off very much at all; they just circled round until the cars stopped, then straight back to work. Later in the afternoon they had moved on to the field next door, feeding on the insects stirred up by a rambling herd of half-highland cattle, a herd which included some very small calves.

One (probably the main) reason why such a small insignificant cove as Porthlune has such a large, well-organised (and not cheap) car park is its proximity to Caerhays Castle, which has a convenient entrance to the grounds right over the road from the cove. It looked quite attractive viewed from the beach, if you like your castles to be large victorian gothic houses, but we decided not to tour the grounds or the house on this occasion. Maybe another time. There are also some circular waymarked walks available from the cove, but we didn't try those either yesterday. It was a good day with enough walking as it was...

Rough Tor conquered, finally!

Rough Tor. Not quite the highest point in Cornwall, but it only comes second by a couple of feet to its neighbour, Brown Willy. Several times over the last few years we've planned to go up it, but either the weather has been too awful or I've just not been fit enough - sometimes both - and I had almost come to believe it was unachievable.

The 'easy' walk consists of a long fairly gentle haul across wide open moorland up to a ridge, then turn right along the ridge to the summit. We got as far as starting out a year or so ago in horizontal driving rain - down to the stream and through the gate was OK, but as we started to climb up to the ridge I became aware that despite all the proper waterproof gear my right ear was full of icy cold rainwater. The prospect of turning my face into the weather to do the last steep bit was too much, and I chickened out and turned back. I have to say that my companions didn't bother to carry on without me, either...

Yesterday, though, was different. Glorious weather, hot and sunny with just a welcome hint of breeze. Walking fairly slowly but steadily straight up the slope to the col and along the ridge to the war memorial to the men of the 43rd Wessex Division at the top of the tor (but not quite the highest point) took about an hour. The view was every bit as impressive as I'd been promised; out to the Atlantic to the north, Dartmoor miles away to the east, many familiar radio masts and hilltop monuments identifiable in all directions, sapphire lakes concentrating and focusing the colour of the sky above.

Someone said how wonderful it was that however many people were up there walking the place always seemed empty, and we were almost immediately joined by a large party of ladies on a proper walking holiday, complete with official guide (male) who reached the top a few minutes after his group did. After exchanging pleasantries we moved along the ridge a bit and became the only people in the world again. Photographs were taken and a picnic was consumed in the lee of the rocks before we started down.

The ground underfoot was completely dry; even the normal boggy patches had dried out and much of the grass was crackly white underfoot. Not a lot of grazing for the few animals that were up there. We only saw a couple of small flocks of sheep (with only one lamb between them) and several ponies, quite a few with very young foals. There were lots of skylarks around and one cuckoo in the distance - the first I'd heard this year.

Back down at the bottom of the hill there's a small stream which the dogs much appreciated. We walked along it for a while and were amused to see how many ponies had decided to go for a paddle too!

Altogether it was a much easier walk than I'd been expecting; every failed or aborted attempt had increased the height and steepness exponentially in my mind until I'd decided it was almost impossible. I was - and am - inordinately proud of myself for getting up there, especially as next week I'll be reaching a birthday three beyond the one I didn't expect to see. No one else seems to understand, though. I keep telling people 'Ty and I climbed Rough Tor' and they just say 'That's nice.'

In fact, it was such a gentle walk that we went for another one after we got home, down to the creek and round to the waterside to meet Ron and see if he'd got any fish, and Ty took it upon himself to teach a young retriever to swim, spending almost an hour in the water while I had a well-deserved glass of cider.

Sunshine, blue skies - can this really be Dartmoor?

What do you call a Cornish Hedge when it's in Devon? At the risk of offending some sensibilities, I'll have to call it a Cornish Hedge as I know of no other name for a double stone wall filled with earth, covered with grass, hedging plants and sometimes even whole trees growing on and in it. How do you get over a Cornish Hedge? With a fair amount of difficulty, even on a public footpath where some slight concession to accessibility has been made.
Yesterday's walk, in glorious sunshine, began with an obstacle course which nearly finished one of the dogs and most of the people. We were nine humans (more than half of whom have bus passes) and four dogs. We met at the Elephant's Nest, Horndon, near Mary Tavy on the edge of Dartmoor. Immediately opposite the pub there's a footpath sign next to a five foot stone wall. A few hundred years ago when it was built across a footpath, three of the stones were turned round to offer slight projections as footholds, now precariously worn. A flat grass bit on the top, then a similar descent into a field. All the humans managed it, some with greater agility than others. Of the collies, Megs flew over, Ty was workmanlike, and Jake struggled because he's a bit heavier. Harvey-the-spaniel had to be given a bit of a bunk up but got down unaided. Regroup with a sigh of relief, now we're in the country, off we go...
Well, not quite. This barrier was only the first of half a dozen between narrow grassy fields. The first field contained two horses and a donkey, then we clambered over another giant wall before a second, empty field. To get into the third and largest field there were two separate walls with a stream between to jump, and here the access had been 'modernised' by providing sloping ladders either side. Easier for humans, but trickier for dogs. In the third field there was a large flock of sheep, all with very small lambs, which required some interesting logistics; one person passing a dog up on a lead, a second on the other side catching. Just throw walking sticks and poles over and retrieve later. The sheep ignored us, but their minder, a wild white woolly llama, danced over to investigate, legs flicking out in hamstring kicks. Not too close an investigation, thank goodness - he just stood about 20 yards away, keeping between us and the sheep, and stared spittily until we were safely across this field to the very last barrier - ladders again. And this time Megs managed to get one of her back legs hooked over the top and swung helplessly till rescued. Didn't even squeal, and wasn't hurt at all, luckily. Thence across the final field, through a farmyard and out a gate into a lane. There was a sign leading back the way we came - 'public footpath to the Elephant's Nest public house'. I wonder how many merry souls have struggled over the obstacle course for a well deserved pint or two, and how well they managed to negotiate it on the way back!
Out of the farmyard into a lane and up (and up) on to the open moor at Kingsett Down. Did I mention that the weather was glorious, warm sunshine and blue sky? On the moor it stayed glorious, but with the addition of bracing cool breeze. Visibility was as good as I've ever seen it - we could see back into Cornwall as far as Caradon Hill and Kit Hill on Bodmin Moor.
From up on the Down a gentle descent through green lanes (wild flower spotting - celandines, primroses, violets, wild strawberries) to meet the River Tavy at Hill Bridge. There's a new concrete weir there, with a salmon ladder to one side and what we thought was a take off to a reservior. Below it there was a pool just deep enough for the dogs to have a bit of a swim. We walked along the leat which starts there through Creason Wood, watching and listening to the river fall away downhill to our left. And so back into a lane which led us back to Horndon village and back to the Elephant's Nest for lunch. I have to say that their steak and kidney pudding (cabbage with pancetta, boiled new potatoes drenched in butter and parsley) was one of the nicest I have ever tasted, and even more enjoyable for being eaten in the open air in the garden.
It was well worth all that effort at the beginning, a really good day out on Dartmoor.

Standing right on top of the wildest, most open, bleakest, emptiest space in Bodmin Moor in a hailstorm is not top of my list of ways to spend Good Friday (or any other day), but that is what I did today.
There was a walk planned, from St Breward to King Arthur's Hall and back, and the day had dawned sunny, warm and deceptively peaceful. The last few days have been dreadful everywhere (except, apparently, in Canada) and although we haven't had the heavy snowfalls they've had in Scotland it's been pretty wild, with rain, sleet, snow, hail, very strong winds and general unpleasantness. So when it was so warm and bright in the morning I was inclined to believe the forecast that said the worst of it had passed, with only a few showers remaining.
I *know* about the moors now, I prepare for the worst. There *will* be walking, but I will wear; from the waist down, leggings, showerproof trousers, heavy duty socks, waterproof boots; from the waist up, pique shirt, fleece, Swedish loggers' fleece lined waterproof coat (passed down from my sister-in-law's brother) either a fleecy hat or a waxed rain hat (took both, opted for the warm one), and good gloves. I *will* be weatherproof. And, in view of the fact that we are going to be eating in quite a nice establishment afterwards (with a 'touch' of just-in-case) I will also take some spare trousers and spare footwear.
St Breward is a long way from everywhere. It's right up on top of Bodmin Moor - it claims the highest pub and highest church in Cornwall, and although there are other contenders for both it is definitely up there with them. Ty and I left Saltash at lunchtime in lovely weather. There's a place where I had to cross the main A30 road and had to wait for ten minutes for a gap in the traffic going west for the weekend (nothing going the other way at all) and as I waited there it started to rain. Across the road it stopped, but a couple of miles further on there was a flurry of hailstones - heavy, but only for a couple of minutes.
We got to the meeting place first and I had plenty of time to get all the heavy weather gear on. When JakeMegs(Harvey) finally arrived they brought a new walker with them - come all the way from County Cork for her very first visit to Cornwall and straight off the plane onto the moor. She'd been warned, of course, and had the waterproofs, and even looked as if she was going to enjoy it! King Arthur's Hall and back, that was the plan.
King Arthur's Hall is a megalithic place of stones and bog, sort of house shaped, right on the top of the moor in the middle of nowhere, with Roughtor and Brown Willy (two of the hills I have never actually got to the top of) looming in the background. The way there was fine, good walking, bright sunshine, wonderful views. You can almost see the sea on both the north and south coasts from there. Well, you can see the St Austell china clay slag heaps to the south, and the Delabole wind farm to the north, both of which are within a mile or so of the shore. It is really and truly on top of the world.
However. As we stood there, within sight of King Arthur's Hall, checking out the visibility in several directions, a line of squalls suddenly appeared to our left. We looked right - another line of squalls. Within five minutes they had converged and the horizontal hail started. Nothing we could do but stand there with our backs to it. It was stinging my legs even through trousers and leggings. It was impossible to look into it. And that was the exact moment that Ron chose to phone and see where I was and if I was having fun! So I told him...
It seemed to last forever but was probably about ten minutes. But by the end of it I was wet in places I didn't think the weather could reach. (Down the back of my neck, for example.) Still, the sun came out and we gradually dried off as we walked. The ground was a lot boggier than it had been half an hour before, though. Down from the moor to a ford which was flooded (but passable in proper boots). Up the hill the other side and we could see the church in St Breward, although we couldn't get there in a straight line. We were on lanes for a while and round one corner all the dogs went to look at something - the three collies turned away, but Harvey-the-Spaniel didn't leave it until told twice. It was a dog fox. It had been shot, with a rifle, one shot through the heart, and left there at the side of the road. Within the last 24 hours or so. Why? Why shoot it in the first place? Why leave it lying there? One wondered whether to report it to somebody, but then what good would it do? Shortly afterwards we went past some sheep. Although all the dogs are well behaved round sheep, we were shocked enough by the sight of the shot fox to put them on leads just in case the farmer with the rifle was still around.
Upward and onward through a farmyard and several muddy fields then back to St Breward and the pub. We'd booked a meal for six, and we got there at five to. Which isn't bad at all. I was glad I'd had the foresight to bring dry, non muddy trousers because the Old Inn is a very nice, clean establishment. The food was very good, too, and we had a pleasant couple of hours eating and putting the world to rights.
Suitably restored, I drove home. Just between the A30 and Cardinham, suddenly the road was covered with half grown rabbits, the first of the year. From there, of course, I spent about ten miles avoiding rabbits, until I got back on the main road home.
It was a good day, although I could have done without the hailstorm. Perhaps next time we'll get a chance to actually explore King Arthur's Hall...