20230626 Warren House Inn

Location: Dartmoor, England

Distance: 39.2km

Route:

[googlemaps https://www.google.com/maps/d/embed?mid=1PQb6ztOFl0oJFEvEuaTXdMiTSfk94lo&ehbc=2E312F&w=640&h=480]

Though I’d already caught sight of the whitewashed walls and packed picnic tables, it was the smell of smoke that made it real. Legend has it that the fire in the Warren House Inn has not gone out since the still smouldering embers were transferred to the current building from a previous one over the road in 1845. We had just walked 13 hot miles from near Okehampton, off path and through bug country, to be here. The .gpx we were roughly following had been so bad that any faith in aspects of the route being true to life had long been abandoned. It was ironic therefore that the thing which had finally given me reason to believe that the pub before us was real, was the surely-fictional 19th century hearth.

Perhaps it isn’t that unbelievable. I grew up with central heating and radiators. We didn’t have a fireplace or know anyone who did. At 29, I still consider them an exotic cold-weather treat. And it was absurd to have one in that heat. It was absurd to think that people willingly burn fuel for warmth, when I, the sweatiest man in history, had just marched in the afternoon sun for hours. It was absurd that there existed on this earth things such as glaciers and fur hats. It was absurd that there are backs and shoulders and forearms not drenched in perspiration. And yet those things do exist and soon enough, sat in the shade with a pint of fizzy cider, the absurdity faded away. The smell of smoke was very much real, and the chilly sunken interior of the bar actually seemed to warrant it.

We had decided after work on the Friday that we should go for a walk, so we packed our things and grabbed some provisions and set our alarms early for Saturday morning. Having no physical map I figured that we could depend on the OS app and spent all of twenty minutes looking for a suitable route. We settled on an elliptical path taking us into the heart of Dartmoor's interior and back out again, and set off from the car around 10am. The weather was due to be hot so we moved briskly, crossing a brook and ascending Oke Tor, then Steeperton Tor. After some confusion, in which we joined the back of a caravan of marauding sheep and were led off course, we reached Wild Tor. After that we stayed up high for several hours, past Watern Tor and on until Manga Hill and the shady ruins at Teignhead Farm. We took our packs off and drank vino tinto under the cool trees, eating Kit Kats and tortillas with fat chunks of cheddar, and joined a group of nearby dozing sheep in sitting out the hottest part of the day.

An hour later we hauled ourselves back to the path, which was no longer a path, to follow the edge of the forest, which was no longer really a forest, as it had been recently logged. The whole of Fernworthy Forest was in fact a bit of a dump, despite being praised for its "abundance of archaeology" and biodiversity (including "some rare species"). Next time I visit I will make time to see the glamour of the reservoir rather than just skirting around the the less salubrious southwestern perimeter. On this day the only rare species to be seen on this day were ticks, which we had somehow both avoided until that day (Grace had no fewer than seven, whereas none seemed to be able to get purchase on my silken leg hair). And so it was, bitten and sore, that we arrived at the pub, which we were thrilled to find was really a pub, and sat ourselves down for several hours in the shade. It turned out that we had not in fact sat out the hottest part of the day at all, and were quite raw from our exposed walk. But it was nice to sit and watch the families sat on the benches, see the groups of friends making their way between hostels, and listen to the many cyclists tell their dull stories.

When the afternoon was cooler and approaching something like evening, we said goodbye to the pony who had sidled up to us and was showing her foal how to lick the road for salt, and headed back the way we had come, but further west.

"Hello. Is there a pub over there?"

We had been intersected by two young guys in jeans and daypacks. One of them was holding a compass.

"We're trying to find the pub. Please tell me there is a pub."

They had set out from Okehampton, not far from where we had started, but had taken the bold decision to not deviate from a bearing which would lead them straight to Buckfast Abbey. This is just twenty miles as the crow flies, but these were men not corvids. They had a dishevelled look to them, sweaty and snagged. Both seemed very out of breath. After some chatter we sent them on their way, reassured that the pub did exist, and that they were indeed heading that way. It would likely take them off their strict course, but we concluded that they probably weren't being held to the same standards as others. After that it was miles and miles of golden grass, more horses, and a swift but muted march through a herd of cows and their young.

We camped on Sittaford Tor and heated water to make instant ramen noodles. We cracked open cans of oily fish and added them to the broth for good measure, before leaning back on the hot flat rocks to watch the sunset, drink the rest of the wine, and lick the spicy soup from our sundried blistered lips. I slept solidly but woke in a hot clammy panic, and had to get out of the tent at dawn to wash my head and face with cold water. It was nice to walk around in the pre-dawn glow in my pants and flipflops, but couldn't last. We packed ourselves away before any other tents showed any signs of stirring and made our way down through another herd of sleeping cows, over a creek, and up and over Hangingstone Hill.

It was a long morning, with a strange atmosphere of death hanging over it. Early on we had passed the massive remains of a calf which had recently passed away, from what I couldn't say, and further down toward the car a lamb - still alive but doubtless not for much longer. It was breathing shallowly on the path while the mother, presumably, sat nearby watching. We paused for a moment and deliberated, but at the end of the day what can you do somewhere like that. It did not seem to be scared or in pain. We walked on, back over the many tors, over the brook, and back to the car.