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The Two Moors Way
The following is a sample of one chapter from the book. If you wish to purchase an electronic version of the book [on CD] for £8 click here. It includes a full photograph gallery of the entire path, comprising many hundreds of photographs. [13.25
miles - 1 May 2000 The drive to Ivybridge was blisteringly hot. A perfect sunny day. Passerines were alive with chatter, an ambience of tranquillity amidst the bustling heave of tourists and locals in the car park outside of the Tourist Information Centre. The sun, even at this early hour, was beating down upon me so that sweat already trickled down my forehead and the back of my neck; an uncomfortable sensation, and yet the warmth and reassurance offered by the sun was comforting – it meant no mist or rain. I was well covered, dressed in a long-sleeved Ron Hill running shirt and tracksters. My face and neck were all that were exposed to the sun. I did not wish to be burned. As I left the town centre to arrive at Stowford Bridge my spirits soared. I do not like the sound of traffic; I enjoy peaceful rural sounds, and I was now experiencing them. No cars; no overhead aeroplanes. A short run from the cross roads at Stowford Bridge brought me to a bridle path on my right. There were many day trippers here, in pairs and walking their dogs. I was obliged to run past them all, saying “hello” each time. The path
climbed the lower slopes of Dartmoor and then I passed through a wooden gate and
emerged into the freedom of access land, the slopes of Western Beacon.
I felt the freedom of space but also the slight panic of not being sure
in which direction I was to travel. There
were people walking in all directions, and many paths heading off in divers
directions.
There was no point in following anyone. I would aim for the disused tramway that I would be following for much of today’s route. I knew I would intersect it if I ran to a bearing of 42 degrees, even though I could not yet see it. So I set off uphill, steeply, for what seemed a very long time. The disused tramway runs all the way from Bittaford [near Ivybridge] to Red Lake China Clay Works [now disused]. I would be following it for 6 miles or so. One of the paths ran more or less in the direction in which I wished to travel and I took it. The climb, at first, was extremely arduous. I was hot, sweaty and very sticky. My petite back pack and bum-bag felt cumbrous and moved up and down with my strides. The sun was bearing down on the back of my neck and I resolved that I would later stop and don a peaked cap I had brought with me, but for now I wished to apply some distance between myself and Ivybridge. At length I made the disused tramway and paused momentarily to look back at all those I had overtaken when I had first entered access land. Much to my surprise they were nowhere to be seen and this was not because I had run far or fast. They had simply followed local footpaths or returned. I was now alone on the moors. It was clear
from my map and from what I could see of the tramway that it curved around the
west flank of Weatherdon Hill, following the contour for 290 metres and that it
then curved back to continue in the same direction, i.e. on a bearing of 40
degrees. I therefore decided to
take a shortcut by continuing to run at 40 degrees, over a saddle between
Weatherdon Hill and Butterdon Hill. I
soon regretted doing so as the climb was far greater than I had anticipated, and
instead of saving energy I used more.
But I was enjoying myself now and I had a good view of the cairns atop Butterdon Hill, and, ahead of me, of Hangershell Rock. All around me skylarks were singing. I realised today why skylarks do not sing when I endeavour to record their singing but why they do when I am running in the moors. The answer is quite simple. When skylarks sing it is because they are declaring their territorial grounds. When I am running I am disturbing them, and they rise into the air to affirm their claim. When I am quietly recording they are not disturbed and have no reason to sing. Hangershell Rock loomed before me and I made a beeline for it, passing between lazing cattle that seemed wary but too comfortable to move if they did not have to. I gave as much berth as I was reasonably able to without altering my general direction. There were many cattle lazing around the Rock itself and I did wish to examine it, even if momentarily. No berth was given here. Hangershell Rock looked rather like a series of flat rocks balanced one atop the other perched in isolation from other outcrops, and certainly a distinctive landmark to provide easy identification. I rejoined the tramway at the far side of the Rock and immediately felt the dissimilarity from the soft earth I had just been running on and the sharp biting stones of the tramway. Running along the tramway for any distance would be sure to blister my feet, and so far as I could I ran on the edge of the tramway. The Two Moors
Way does not precisely follow the tramway, but the two are so close together
that it is far easier to follow the latter.
Shortly after rejoining the tramway my path veered acutely to my right and almost immediately again to my left. I cut across and began the ascent of Piles Hill, a long and tedious slog. The tramway by-passed the actual summit [but not by much] and within a few minutes I had a terrific view to my left across the Erme Valley, and could clearly make out the Tarka trail pathway as it snaked beside the river. I could see across to Stall Moor and could see the deep gash of the Erme Valley joined by some of the Erme’s tributaries. The sun continued to shine its ever warming rays upon me and the perspiration continued to pour from my head and trickle across my face and into my eyes. The warm breeze carried the scent of the grasses and all around me the moors where alive with creatures both great and small, each enjoying the serenity of the day in its own way. I, as one of those creatures, shared in that enjoyment and at times felt highly elated. Dampening my joy, however, was the knowledge that ahead of me lay an unmarked path that I would have to navigate by compass. This alarmed me a little, but as I ran my confidence grew. To my right my
view was blocked by the ridge of Ugborough Moor, which my path followed just
short of the top. I ran past Sharp
Tor and closed slightly on the Erme which increased the grandeur of the panorama
on my left. I then rounded the head
of a buttress on Harford Moor. Suddenly
and abruptly before me appeared the old china clay works of Left lake, where
there is a lake filling a flooded clay pit beneath Left lake Mires.
I stopped for a short respite and a drink of water and then continued on my way. I soon rounded another bend of the tramway, from where I had a grandiose view of the Erme Valley and the ringed structures on the Erme Plains farther up it, which I took to be the Erme Pound and a number of hut circles. The Erme Pound is a bronze age construction formerly used for rounding up ponies and cattle. I now rounded another large bend in the tramway and ahead of me I saw a solitary walker and beyond him another group of four, just rounding Quickbeam Hill. After all this time of running I was still climbing and the stony surface of the tramway was becoming increasingly uncomfortable as blisters began to form on my feet and in particular on one of my toes. Putting on a show of strength I ran past the walkers, saying “hello” as I did so, and then rounded the final bend of the tramway at Brown’s Heath, almost immediately coming upon a small but prominent triangular shaped marker stone, which I was looking out for to proffer egress from the tramway to open moorland. I may well have missed the marker stone but for the fact there was a teenager loitering by it and obviously waiting to jump out and surprise the hikers behind me, with whom I assumed he was with. This was the junction of the Abbots Way with the disused tramway. My fear of this path junction was immediately justified, as without any warning or any footpath markers there were two paths leading off, each in similar but different directions. I took a compass bearing and chose to follow the track leading more to my right. This petered out after about 50 yards. I could see a prominent hut-like feature on the sky-line ahead of me and as I knew my path passed through more china clay ruins I aimed for this, supposing the structure to be part of the ruins. A good decision. The path actually passed to the left of it, but I passed to the right, following my slightly inaccurate compass bearing. After passing
the ruins I lost my way. I could
see, far ahead of me, in the direction in which I was travelling, a group of
people. I assumed, initially, that
they were on my path and began to run towards them, but I could also see, to my
left, a river valley, which I was now running away from at an increasing angle.
I knew that I should now be running downhill [I was running uphill] and
that I should be closing on the River Avon.
This would be in a valley. I
decided that the people ahead of me must in fact be by Petre’s Cross on
Western White Barrow, and I altered direction and ran towards the valley.
As I neared it I could make out large circular features on the opposite
valley sides, which I knew to be ancient settlements and the pillow mounds of
Huntingdon Warren, relics of nineteenth century rabbit farming.
A little
further back up the valley I could see a clapper bridge. I had expected it to be much further away but as I had
descended the valley in the wrong place this was not surprising.
My path lay on the far side. Although
the Avon was more than ankle deep I did not waste any further time by making my
way to the clapper bridge. My feet
were already soaked, so I just waded into the Avon and crossed it without any
further ado.
The path on the far side was well marked and easy to follow. I sped off, happy with myself for successfully navigating by compass to this point. I thought the next stretch of compass navigating, at Hickerton Hill, to be simple and was not, as yet, unduly concerned about it. After only a
few minutes I came across a large stone cross by the fords where the Western
Waller Brook joins the River Avon. This
was Huntingdon Cross, which dates back to the 1500’s. Here I crossed a number of fords. Ahead of me now was Hickerton Hill. A large circular stone-walled ruined settlement lay before me
and I passed to its left as I laboured steeply uphill.
As I crested the steeper slopes of the hill I realised that my cavalier approach to navigating from here was a blunder. The moorland ahead of me looked vast and was similar in each direction, save to my left where I could still make out Huntingdon Warren. Taking out my compass again I followed a bearing of 68 degrees. I was expecting to glimpse a track ahead of me which should dissect my bearing, laying between the rock cairns on Puper’s Hill to my north and the continuation of the Abbott’s Way which was now to my south east. Ahead of me were many wild ponies and cattle, grazing peacefully. The serenity of it lulled me into a composure that I would not ordinarily have felt, being so unsure of my route. I mentally committed myself to becoming more conversant with compass orienteering when I returned home, so that I would be more confident in situations such as this. After fifteen minutes or so I still could not see a path and more knots began to form in my stomach. I was sure the path ought to be visible by now. I took a fresh compass setting from my map and altered my bearing to 42 degrees, which swung me over further to my left, i.e. more to the north. At length I spotted a man and his dog walking on what I supposed [rightly] was a path. This was another path which intersected with the path I was looking for. He was walking in the direction of Huntingdon Warren, along the Huntingdon Warren track. I cut across to this track and joined it close to the path I was looking for. No sooner was I on my path, however, than I had to leave it. The path continued down to Lud Gate, which was an alternative route to Scorriton, a village I would be passing through before reaching Holne where I was to meet Tanya. I had previously decided to take the other route to Scorriton, which unfortunately did not contain a path. This would take me to Chalk Ford and from thence along a bridle way into Scorriton. I particularly wanted to see the Chalk Ford and the River Mardle. As my path
curved eastward I left it, continuing on the same compass bearing of 42 degrees
and made my way downhill across the bracken slopes of Hickerton Hill.
As I dropped down the fringe of the access land became more obvious as
the wild moorland gave way to gorse and the cadence of hidden children playing,
which brought joyful memories to my mind, as I thought of my own children at
home.
The ford was
shallow and fringed with yellow gorse blossoms. Beside it was a wooden bridge but I wished to cross the ford
and cool my feet, which I did. I
had not expected a waterfall as the guide books do not mention it, and I was
pleasantly surprised to hear its cascading waters.
I was not, however, able to see much of it as it was well hidden beneath
the gangling trees which guarded its flanks.
I was in fact now running with some pain. I had been fine while running uphill but when running downhill I was experiencing a sharp pain on the outside of my right knee. A week earlier, while on a training run I had been running on hard rippled sand for several miles. I had felt some discomfort at the time, but after completing that run [16 miles] the outside of my right knee had hurt for several days. The pain had then ceased and I thought the injury had healed. It seems that the injury was a twisting, compression type and that it affected me mostly when running downhill. I afterward learned that the knee joint had been slightly injured together with a minor connecting tendon. Although not serious it was clear I would not be able to run on it much longer. I nevertheless continued to run along the bridle path, becoming increasingly aware of the pain in my knee. Despite the ease of the path, I was running slowly and it took me longer than it should to complete the rest of the distance into Scorriton, about a mile. Once at the village I decided to walk the remainder of the route today as to continue running now would be foolish, and I was hoping the injury would resolve itself by the morning. Holne lay only ½ mile away, although steeply uphill. I walked speedily into Holne. Tanya was waiting for me in a car park opposite to the Forge Café, laying on a grass verge, sunning herself. I was hungry and wanted to eat. I was thirsty and wanted to drink. I was tired and wanted to stretch, rest and change. I did none of these things. I wished to make a sound recording of one of the local rivers. I had left in the car my sound recording equipment and we went in search of such a river. Alas, there were too many tourists around and we soon gave up the attempt. We eventually returned to the Forge Café and enjoyed one of the most delicious vegetarian meals we have ever tasted. The hospitality of the staff here was second to none. We vowed to return, but each day we journeyed further away from it and were unable to. One day, however, I would return. [Author's Note: Alan White [referred to above] has his own web site in which he describes his walk of the Two Moors Way, together with his companion Lesley.
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