With a vague memory of a holly bush, I set out into a snow covered moorland. From the village, I walked along the track until the first bridge where I left the track to follow the head of the Meavy River. The ground was unfrozen beneath my feet. Sliding down the hill parts of the way, I peeked into the arched bridge before continuing alongside the gully. The track, well worn by dog walkers and hikers, leads easily to the main road with only one large puddle to navigate. Across the road, past a few cars that were abandoned overnight in the middle of the devil’s elbow thanks to the fresh snow, down the steep bank. The Meavy is now a visible creek. Large enough that a few footballs could float along at the same time, but shallow enough that I could walk through it if the weather were warmer. Across the floor of a tin working gully, and back up the other side. A small scramble to figure out my footing with the fresh coating of snow.
Although there’s barely an inch of snow on the ground, the moorland is transformed to a sheet of white. The gorse bushes are blanketed with pockets of black where the stretch between the ground and their full height is too great for the snow to have fully encapsulated them. It’s a rolling walk, always heading up or down a hill. On the gentle decline to Hart Tor, I pass the remains of several homes. Ruins. Only the foundations remain of the round huts which protected the land’s ancestors several thousand years ago. The history of human occupation stretches even further back on Dartmoor. Through our volunteering with the park, we’ve found flint nappings in this area which indicate people were here nearly five thousand years earlier.
The track is a smooth line of white from the blanketed snow, contrasting to the gentle humps of the grass covered snow to either side of the track. Old stone posts mark the distance in yards to Hart Tor and the final target from an old prison shooting range. 500, 400, 300, 200. They are low to the ground and easy to miss. Dartmoor is full of signs of human occupation, if you know to look for it. I skirt around the base of the tor, as is typical for me. I don’t feel the need to stand atop the tors, although I will happily scramble up them if I’m walking with others who want company to survey the land from the highest possible point.
In Crossing’s Guide to Dartmoor, he outlines the routes from every point on Dartmoor to every other point. Indeed, there are practically highways between most tors that are free-from bracken and gorse. Grazed by sheep, cows, and horses for centuries. It’s more difficult to see them today, but when I reach the crest of the hill where Hart Tor sites, I know there are four possible routes I can follow: southeast to Cramber Tor, northeast to Princetown, northwest to retrace my tracks, or southwest towards Black Tor. I spend a few moments looking back at the traffic that has backed up on the devil’s elbow and chuckle at how poorly this country handles even the slightest bit of snow. Karmically, I step onto the path and directly into a deep bit of muddy bog, soaking my leg with wet, black mud.
Heading down hill, again, I walk between a double stone row from the Bronze age. The tallest of the stones doesn’t even reach my waist. Towards the end of the row, a tin working gully slices through the row which was invisible to industry. I look back towards Hart Tor and see the sky has turned black. Incoming snow. I’m equipped with full waterproofs, a map, a compass, and a sense of adventure. I find the small iron plank that acts as a bridge across the Meavy, and continue my walk along the river. Two men in high vis jackets are investigating a box the size of a car beside the man-made water channel. We all wave. They are paid to be out in this weather. I am simply out.
The river carries on meandering, as I step onto the track next to the man-made water channel. The Devonport Leat, as it’s known, starts a little east of Princetown village, near Wistman’s Woods, and will end shortly as it dumps into a reservoir. Once a farm and several houses, the inhabitants were forced to leave in the late 1800s when the reservoir was built, and the valley was flooded. Prior to the reservoir, the leat travelled a total of 27 miles from its source to the dockyards in Plymouth. The ghosts of human occupation make it easy for me to walk safely from point-to-point when the visibility is good.
Following along the leat, I now begin my search for a single holly tree that I remember seeing when we were out looking at carpets of bluebells amongst the crumbled farm stone walls in spring. When I first saw the tree, I took a mental note that I would need to revisit it to check for berries. Holly trees can live 300-500 years in ideal conditions, but 75-100 is more typical. This holly is a young one, but old enough that it is now taller than me. I’m pleasantly surprised to find it quite close to the leat, and with a few berries. I shrug my knapsack off and check the sky again. The black skies have turned to spotted grey as the first few snowflakes of a squall have started to fall.
Reaching into the bush to pick a few berries, I’m immediately pricked by the sharp leaves of the bush. I pause. And then locate a few different berries. Again, I’m pricked by the sharp leaves as I try to pluck the berries from the tree. I try again, and again, the holly tree lets me know these berries are not mine. Chuckling, I put my foraging bag away. For all the impacts we’ve had on the landscape, this tree has said it is not there for me to plunder. Yes, fair enough little one. There will be other trees that are older, have more berries, and enough to share.
I pack up and continue on my circular route, following the leat upstream and back to the village.