Feathers from the Angel's Wing

When the archangel comes knocking, you should pay attention. 

So yesterday Dru and I found ourselves on our first proper jaunt of 2019. Our destination ... Dartmoor.

St Michael de Rupe, atop Brentor, to be precise. Here he is, in all his saturnine glory.

It's a hefty climb up to the church, but always worth it. Yesterday the view was like its angel, moody and magnificent.

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Also, windswept and interesting.

Since I broke my leg a few years ago, descents are trickier than ascents because I don't trust my bones to hold me up anymore, but there were few pockets of ice left after last week's snow and it was mostly just squelchy.

Squelchy enough for frogs, in fact, but the croak overhead was the day's first raven.

We then headed for St Petroc's at Lydford. 

I like its setting best. Next door to the infamous Lydford gaol ... 'the most annoius, contagious and detestable place within this realm' ...

... in front of a small Norman hill fort ... 

... and with a fabulous, round churchyard, which suggests a religious site dating back to pre-Christian time.

Before this 13th century building, there was a wooden Saxon church which was attacked and burnt down in 997AD by the Vikings. 

A runic stone was set up in 1997 to commemorate the 1000th anniversary of the attack. A passing villager told us how he had seen silver coins minted at Lydford in a museum in Stockholm, and we took a moment to lament Brexit. 

Dru's snowdrop photo

The interior of the church is lovely, but possibly not as lovely as the interior of the Castle Inn, which is one of my favourites.  Dru was keen to see the modern stained glass of the three hares and the green man, so we popped in to have a coffee and avail ourselves of their facilities.

Next, we headed south to Tavistock and then up up up across the moor to Chagford, which always involves a stop at Bennett's Cross with its fabled view, which today was decidedly murky.

Here's St Michael again, this time in his church in Chagford. He's busy smiting the dragon, of course. Dru rather naughtily suggested that he might be using a flamingo to do it.  

Then it was off down some of Devon's rather hair-raising lanes to a meeting about putative involvment in a project combining art and poetry and walking on Dartmoor and archangels, with a possible side-order of local cider. More about tht n due corrse, perjsaps (fungrs crssde). 

Return to Lydford and the Long White Dress Of Love

Our previous visit to Lydford Gorge was the autumn before last; our return trip was at the request of my partner in poetry, who wanted to see it at a different time of year.  

One of the disadvantages of working in a school is that you have to take your holiday during school holiday time. Normally this isn't too much of a problem on Dartmoor, which is big enough and bleak enough to be secluded even during August, but Lydford Gorge is owned by the National Trust and very popular with the  Labrador and Barbour Brigade.

We managed to keep a bit of a space for ourselves while walking the one-way system through judicious speeding up and tactical standing to one side as appropriate. 

Peeing in the White Lady fountain helped also. (Just kidding.)

The waterfall, although less full this time of year, is still the Long White Dress Of Love.  

And the verdant mosses and ferns make the whole ravine feel jungly ...  

  

... or even Rivendellesque.

In fact, Peter Jackson could have saved a fortune on CGI and air tickets for the entire production to  New Zealand. 

Although speactacular, Devil's Cauldron was also less full than during more wintry months.  

 

Anyhow, we had a appointment at the village pub. 

The Long White Dress of Love

And so to Lydford Gorge for a return visit, at the request of Son the Younger, who was five years old the last time we were there.  But first a visit to Lydford Castle, built in 1195 and notorious as the courthouse and dungeon of Dartmoor prison.  

I have an interest in the prison, as it features in my novel, Dart, which is set on the moor during the Black Death.  Back in the day, Lydford Law was a synonym for injustice.

'I oft have heard of Lydford Law,
How in the morn they hang and draw,
And sit in judgement after' 

wrote William Browne of Tavistock in 1644.

'One of the most annoious, contagious and detestable places wythen this realme,' said Richard Strode, an imprisoned MP in 1510.

Far more agreeable is the neighbouring Castle Inn, which dates from 1550.  

It has some modern stained glass on an ancient theme ... 

... and a very appealing snug, my favourite place to eat lunch.

The gorge is just up the road but another world once you are there.  The first part of the walk takes you through Lambhole Wood, a stretch of ancient oak and hazel woodland along the top edge.  At this time of year it's enough to say that it's breathtaking and let the camera take care of its poetry.

        

Every now and then water spilled across our path and on down the hillside ...    

... and then a longer, sunlit vista over the gorge would open up through gaps in the trees.  

Eventually we wound our way through Watervale Wood to the River Lyd at the bottom of the gorge, and headed back up stream as it tumbled to meet us.  

Above the mine adit, we saw a fallen tree, evidence of the storm which had hit earlier in the week ...   

... and then the magical 100ft White Lady waterfall.  

Oldcleave Wood

A fallen tree trunk hammered with coins

Tunnel Falls  

We were now approaching Devil's Cauldron, the other highlight of our walk through the gorge. 

Lydford Gorge is deep and so full of dripping mosses and ferns that you could imagine yourself in the rainforest.

And then the short climb back to the car.  So beautiful.  I shall try not to leave it another 14 years before I return.