Walking on Exmoor

We are not young, Alan and I, but we are fit, intrepid even, I would say. We walk a lot at home. 10 miles on a Sunday across Ashdown Forest or the South Downs is nothing to us. We venture out to other areas and frequently get lost, making a pleasant 10-mile hike into an endurance test of failing light, aching feet and an anxious 15­mile trek in search of the car. So hiking across the moors was the perfect break for us.

We booked a cottage on the Internet, suitably remote and safe for the dogs, on the edge of Exmoor National Park. We packed for all weathers: sturdy boots, wet weather gear, rucksacks, sticks and flasks. We packed the dog baskets, food to last us a fortnight (we had been warned there were no shops in the vicinity), all but the kitchen sink and the puppy's favourite toy. We took the four-wheel drive. This was the best decision we could have made as it turned out later.

We set off in a gale. During the 6-hour drive we met hail, sleet and driving rain. The traffic was moderate and there were no hold-ups. Even so it took much longer than we thought, what with coffee breaks, toilet breaks for the dogs and looking-at-the-map-again-just-to-make-sure breaks. Alan likes to plan, plan and plan again what route he's going to take and then goes for the alternative. He knows

alternative routes from anywhere to anywhere in the whole of the United Kingdom. So Exmoor offered several options. The one we took was not as good as the

alternative, as it turned out!

We found ourselves at a crossroads somewhere near Winsford and took the

sporting little lane across a ford, not deep and perfectly manageable in the four-wheel drive. However it led us to nowhere, a dead end, Tarr Steps. We were faced with a serious challenge. What is, in summer, a dry river bed marked on both sides by stepping stones, thus creating a clearly defined way across, was now, after heavy rain and in March, a raging river, the stepping stones submerged. The only way forward and to our destination was across.

Alan put the Daihatsu in low-ratio four-wheel drive and I (being the one behind the wheel) boldly surged forth and into the water.

"Whatever you do, keep up the revs", last famous words. No sooner said or the car died on me and there we were, stuck. I opened the door and looked at the water swirling underneath, too deep .to walk through without getting seriously wet.

I didn't dare look at Alan who was having a quiet apoplexy beside me, too stunned even for the expected expletives.

"There is water in the exhaust," I ventured, not really knowing what I was talking about.

"Move over," was all he was capable of.

He changed gears to high-ratio four-wheel drive and started the car. It worked, it moved and with some bumping and grinding (the river bed could not be seen and had to be negotiated blind), we made it to the other side to applause and thumbs up from the spectators on the riverbank, who had gathered like vultures around a carcass for the fun of seeing someone in trouble. All this had taken some time and we were now well past our ETA of 4pm. Finally we arrived at 5.30pm. The alternative route would have been quicker, easier, shorter etc. But then, aren't they always.

We were welcomed like much loved but slightly annoying friends by our host and hostess, who were due to go out to dinner and were beginning to wonder if they would ever see us at all.

And then            total bliss: the most charming little cottage, a delicious cream tea,

pretty flowers on the table, a cosy little woodstove aglow with warmth. It was the best moment imaginable. We unpacked ourselves and our dogs, filled cupboards and fridge, arranged the baskets around the woodstove and tucked into scones with jam and cream.

When we felt completely restored, we decided to have a first glimpse of the moor and took the dogs for an hour's run. Glorious. One of the terriers, Bunty, was

moving gingerly with her tail between her legs, but I put it down to the recent visit of my I8-month old granddaughter and her disconcerting habit of throwing things randomly around her, sometimes hitting a moving target. Space, fresh air and a good run-about would soon put her right. Wrong.

We were up early the next day to make the most of our three-day stay. We togged ourselves up in our walking gear, put dogs and sticks in the car and set off for a good long hike. Bunty was still not moving well and lagging behind. After 8 miles or so she started to shiver and I had to help her over rocks and tree roots. We were on a difficult path along the river and it became a problem keeping my footing and carrying her. We crossed and re-crossed little streams, forded swampy areas jumping from tussock to tussock. I had to swallow my pride and ask Alan to help me across.

By this time I had Bunty tied in my t-shirt and tried to carry her that way. It was not successful. Every time we stopped she lay down. I was getting wonied.

Luckily we reached the small village of Withypool around lunchtime and I decided to buy a backpack in the little store to carry her home in. (Of course we had two perfectly adequate backpacks in the cottage. I thought they were in the back of the car but in the hurly burly of unpacking and settling in the previous night they had ended up indoors).

The store did not sell backpacks so I bought a linen shopping bag. I put Bunty in it and she settled happily in the bottom. I looped the handles over my shoulders and started off with her bumping low on my back with every step I took. She found it preferable to having to walk and lay quietly in the bag.

Thus we carried her the long, long way home, up the very steep road out of

Withypool to Comer's Gate and across the moor in search of the car which was always as far as you can see and then a little bit further. We kept spotting it in turn only to find out when we got there that it had been another car, a trick of the light, a mirage. Finally we did find it. We were almost too stiff and tired to climb aboard. We drove back in silence, exhausted.

That night we ate our supper, settled the dogs in their baskets (they never moved again for twelve hours) and fell asleep in front of the telly. We went to bed and slept the sleep of the dead. My last words: "I'm done for", before I succumbed to unconsciousness, had Alan in fits of giggles, where did he get the energy?

The next day we decided there was definitely something wrong with Bunty and took her to the vet, who looked. Her over thoroughly and decided she'd sprained her back, probably by digging. Deniers do a lot of that so that made perfect sense. She gave Bunty a steroid injection and some pills and told us she needed rest.

"Fine", I said, "I'll carry her in my backpack", which we did.

That day we only walked about 10 miles and Bunty lay happily on my back. I, too, was much more comfortable with the rucksack, better positioned and easier on the

shoulders than the shopping bag. We had a good day and an evening at the pub with friends of Alan whom he had met many years ago. So, predictably,.. the talk was of people they knew, wives who had died, places they'd lived before they retired, past glories and present complaints and whatever old people talk about when catching up. "Is he still a runnerT featured largely, often met with an: '''fraid not."

But the food was good and it was warm and cosy inside. Outside a gale was blowing and rain splattered against the windows.

The next day was our last day. We were set for another mammoth hike. We were going to walk to Oare church from Alderman's Barrow and back again, a round trip of roughly 12 miles. I was prepared for Bunty and had made a cushion for her in the bottom of the rucksack with an old towel.

Five minutes into the walk she decided she wanted out and jumped to the ground. So much for resting. We let her fmd her own pace and from then on she kept up, cheerfully snuffling about in hedgerows and rushing about with the other dogs. For some reason, now lost to memory, we left the towel behind, hanging on a tree

along the path.

Finding Oare was no problem and we had lunch in a cafe attached to a caravan park, in the sun, amongst spring flowers, by a babbling brook. It couldn't have been more idyllic. This was before we got lost and very, very tired.

Determined as always to complete his mission, Alan sailed forth in search of Oare church. Plenty of directions and numerous fingerposts were pointing us hither and dither, up the road, down the road, into a field, round the back of a farm, through some woodland. I was beginning to imagine a Sunday congregation streaming through the brambles in their best bib and tuckers led by the vicar lustily singing Onward Christian Soldiers. We were at least a mile from the rectory, which we'd past ages ago.

Finally, finally we found it, back on the road we'd left half an hour previously and five minutes from the afore mentioned rectory. Tempers were fraying, the language was decidedly unchristian and Alan could not be persuaded to see inside the little church now that he was standing opposite it, so disgruntled was he with having been led a merry dance.

It was time to go home. But where was home? We were disorientated by going round in circles just once too often.

"That way," Alan said with an authority he didn't feel, waving his stick in a 180­degree sweep across the horizon. With no better plan at hand I followed meekly. So we trudged on and on and on till eventually we started to recognise landmarks we'd passed before. Hallelujah. He'd been right. We even met up with our towel again, which was still hanging on the tree.

And, of course, the car was as far as you could see and then just a little bit further, every time. We found it, we made it and we crawled in and sat drinking cold tea and eating the biscuits I had left out of the rucksack in favour of Bunty.

This time we barely had the energy to eat supper. Our feet ached, our backs were stiff and I had pulled a muscle in my neck when a restless Bunty jumped out of the backpack. We decided to call it a day and crawled into bed. I didn't even say: "I'm done for." 

And then it was time to go home. The dogs must have sensed it, because they disappeared as soon as we let them out first thing in the morning. Gone, vamoose, nowhere to be seen. We packed up, cleaned up, emptied bins and stripped beds in the hope that they would turn up in the meantime. We send out a search party. Finally Alan discovered them at the bottom of a field, rabbitting, naturally. Terriers!

We said a fond farewell to Peter and Irene, having booked another visit in October. I can't wait. More cream teas, walking, getting lost while enjoying the views, more visiting of local pubs, meeting up with friends and, of course, rabbitting. Perfect.

By Fionna Barr