Bringing the outside in.

Posted on February 27, 2015 by Something About Dartmoor

Sacred. Rowan in Coffin Wood – Dartmoor. Snap a photograph – not snap off!

Inspired while under a Dartmoor tree.

Besides picking up an odd stick for keeps – or even gathering a few twigs to take home as kindling for the woodburner – I’m sometimes tempted to break-off a token sprig from a living tree, not because I want to do harm, but for decoration – to put in a vase for the kitchen table. Rowan, Elder, Blackthorn, and Hawthorn are favourites – and are especially beautiful in the Autumn – when they are laden with irresistible ripe berries. I never do though; superstition and something from within the tree – and myself – acts as a barrier. And anyway, the transience of nature’s bounty can only be preserved if it has been fused with sugar and turned to wine – or jam! With my own alchemy to hand – I decided to create my own small boughs – so that I could bring the outside in all-year-round – and no harm done.

In reverence of trees. Elder, Rowan and Hawthorn. . .

and Blackthorn.

Perceiving beauty.

Posted on February 21, 2015 by Something About Dartmoor

“Nowadays people don’t get enlightenment because they don’t sit under a tree.” Satish Kumar – Earth Pilgrim.

Primavera. Four morph into three – as Spring is nearly sprung!

On the 15th of February – I awoke with a yearning; not for breakfast – but a need to feed my soul, through the medium of an outmoded video tape! Through my window – Spring was tangible; time to give the ‘olde’ video an airing and watch…Satish Kumar’s spiritual and lyrical journey across Dartmoor.

Before he discovered Dartmoor, his recount of his early years in India – and his extraordinary 8,000 mile world-wide pilgrimage for peace between 1962 and 1964, has been an inspiration and a visual treat ever since I saw ‘Earth Pilgrim’ originally broadcast on BBC 2 as part of the Natural World series. Although I purchased the dvd as soon as it became available – I prefer to watch my video that I recorded straight from the telly, simply because the original broadcast featured a piece of instrumental music called ‘Iguazu’ by Gustavo Santaolalla. I think of ‘Iguazu’ as the signature tune of Earth Pilgrim and disappointingly it’s not on the dvd version. . .

Born in 1963, I was rapt from the opening bars – transfixed as the hovering kestrel, by this wise, gentle man of Dartmoor – and Earth. And so it is – that if ever I feel the need to escape to Dartmoor without an actual physical journey – I reach for ‘my’ recording – with a cup of tea at the ready – and I’m away for an hour, and sometimes two if I rewind!

Earth Pilgrim.

Another spellbinding ‘Earth Pilgrim’ moment, was the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into an Emperor Moth – likewise I emerged from my cosy TV den with an irrepressible urge to stretch out and go to Dartmoor that very afternoon. To be energised by the elements of water, earth and air – and fire from the returning Sun. Dartmoor was calling…

In light of ‘Earth Pilgrim’ – and discussing with Tom – we decided to visit “A temple to the Earth” – my favourite wood near Burrator Reservoir. En route, Dartmoor was alive with people – cars parked in lay-bys and on verges – as other people enjoyed the clean air and open space. We arrived at our chosen destination mid-afternoon. All was quiet apart from the resident ravens who were busy attending their swaying tree-top nest; native ravens start breeding in February.

Right – Swaying tree-top nest.

As we wandered through the wood – and wondered at the trees – I took some anniversary photographs of Tom – whose last day it was of being fourteen. Although born on the 16th of February – I always think of him as my ‘Valentine’ baby because that’s when I felt the beginning of his journey to be on the Earth. Nowadays – measuring six feet tall, Tom moves forward at a faster pace – and purposefully strode on ahead, wielding a stick through the air like boys seemingly do whatever their size or age! Meanwhile, as I enjoyed remembering his happy arrival and baby days – I stumbled upon a stick that took my fancy. . .

With stick in hand. Tom at an early age discovering the joy of being under a tree.

A weathered white stick in the shape of a human thigh bone! For someone that loves to walk, and who has a collection of other boney relics above her mantelpiece – it was a symbolic gift of nature; a windfall in its simplest form. . .

Collection of boney relics. ( ‘Witch Bottle’ by Dartmoor artist Rima Staines. http://intothehermitage.blogspot.co.uk/ )

The woodland floor was strewn with fallen limbs from skeletal trees – and animal remains too – but none so stood out as the human-like femur that found me that afternoon.

Comparison.

A couple of days ago – I re-visited Glastonbury. I go there primarily to walk up the Tor and enjoy the abundant, evergreen Mistletoe – or Golden Bough. . .

Golden Bough at Glastonbury.

I also enjoy a mosey around the quirky shops – although I never buy anything because it is my experience that magical things are more often found, like the simple and enduring pleasure of picking up a stick for keeps. . .

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” W.B. Yeats

After a restorative couple hours spent under the trees – we journeyed back home – where I gave the tree bone a wax polish – and after some deliberation I decided that the last resting place for it, was over a painting of ‘Top Withens’ that I’d framed with a favourite – and suitably apt passage from ‘Wuthering Heights’. . .

“Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed. One may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house, and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun.” Emily Bronte

(‘Top Withens’ by Yorkshire artist Barry Hudson.)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

While compiling this post – my two sons went to Exeter…

On their return – they informed me that ‘my’ beloved ‘Mistletoe Tree’ had been felled at the Morchard Bishop junction that joins the A377. Roadworks.org stated that it was a tree trimming exercise only! Mistletoe in Devon is a rare sight; I, for one, shall miss it when I pass that way again and glance up.

Sadly gone. Photographed through the car window – ‘The Mistletoe Tree’ at Morchard Bishop, Devon.

Winter Solstice.

Posted on December 21, 2014 by Something About Dartmoor

Be happy while you’re living for you’re a long time dead…

Posted on November 2, 2014 by Something About Dartmoor

Posted on All Souls’ Day…

Here lyeth the sleeping dust. Headstone in Sourton Churchyard.

A couple of weeks ago – I went to a concert in Widecombe Church – called, ‘Sounds Baroque’. It was part of the Two Moors Festival, and my ticket was a belated birthday gift from my mother, whom I accompanied. Quite why my mother thought a free-spirit like me, would enjoy being cooped-up on a Friday afternoon listening to baroque music is unclear…

Needless to say – I found myself uncomfortably confined in the middle of a long row, seated next to my mother – admittedly with a good view of the quartet, directly opposite the altar and the stained glass window above. Outside, Dartmoor was wild, windy and wet – and through a clear glass tracery window to the side of the nave – I could see a tantalising glimpse of the tors above Widecombe; how I longed to be outside…

Although world-class musicians – the music they were making sounded to my ears like a complete dirge – and my mind started to wander, with thoughts of someone ‘nameless’. I tried desperately to focus on the stained glass window – but Jesus couldn’t save me – and I dissolved irreverently. Containing a fit of the giggles in such a formal setting proved nigh on impossible. With muffled squeaks, I sat there with my face buried in my scarf – conscious that my shoulders were all-a-shudder to those seated behind!

As one of the quartet gave an intense solo harpsichord performance – I seized the moment to make a break for the door – first having to embarrassingly brush passed the bemused people in my row…

With a final excruciating clunk of the heavy metal latch on the church door, I was free; PHEW! I stood at the threshold and the beauty of the rain-soaked moor washed over me, I took a deep breath of soft, warm, damp air and my laughter ebbed away – and I was quite myself again.

My mother remained in the church – and enjoyed the concert fully.

I paid my respects to Beatrice Chase – and then ‘stumbled’ into the National Trust shop – where I found two aptly inscribed heart-shaped stones – one for my mother and one for myself…

Before the concert ended – I returned to the ‘Cathedral in the Moor’. I stood outside in the soft, wind-blown drizzle – and listened at the door…

The divine purity of the soprano’s voice inside, mingled with the wind’s song as it whistled around the cornerstones of the church tower – and unexpectedly I found myself rapt. Despite my earlier heathenish behaviour, providence it would seem had got me the best ‘seat’ standing.

As always – my mother was forgiving. On the journey home, she graciously received my ‘laughter stone’ at the Soussons stone circle near Postbridge – a souvenir of a joyful afternoon spent together, albeit mostly apart!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ideally, I go to church when nobody is there – to absorb the light, the quietness and the unique smell of the hallowed space; it’s then I feel comfortable – at one.

Joyously silent. Aglow inside a Dartmoor church .

Be happy while you're living for you're along time dead.

Eventide.

Something stranger than fiction.

Posted on September 14, 2014 by Something About Dartmoor

It was a bright September morning – and I had wanted to go to Widecombe – to the annual fair – held on the second Tuesday of the month.

Oddly, while wending my way to the legendary fair – all along down along out along lea – I found myself straying (pixie-led) – and ended up nowhere near Widecombe – at a place I can visit anytime of year – and usually when I have a yearning to escape the madding crowd!

Although I was on familiar stomping ground – I stumbled upon something distinctly unfamiliar lurking in the moorland grass – something fetid and alien – a truly ‘orrible thing…

Officially – Clathrus archeri – or Lurkio as I named ‘it’!

I’ve been reliably informed by the Dartmoor National Park Authority – that ‘Clathrus archeri’ aka Lurkio – is a fungus and it arrived on Dartmoor from Down Under. Quite how it arrived here – one can only guess – perhaps it came directly via middle-earth? Alarmed by its unnatural presence – the native little people of Dartmoor imparted that they daren’t sit on it (like they do on other toadstools) in-case they disappear down the plughole never to be seen again!

I took a few photographs for reference (luckily my camera has a good zoom setting) – and then I was pleased to leave it just as I had found it – completely untouched! It had crossed my mind to give it a gentle prod with a stick to see if it moved – but I thought better of it – and went on my merry way…

Too late for the best of Widecombe Fair – I decided to stay put and spent an indeterminable spell – lost in my favourite Dartmoor wood…

(Some visual clues – taken earlier in the Spring!)

Pass through the faery-tree gateway…

Trip Trap over the bridge. The way to the wood (taken in the early Spring)

trip trap over the little bridge…

you’ve entered.

Other than glimpsing passers-by in cars – and lycra-clad cyclists on the high-road to the reservoir (another clue) – it is possible to spend hours at this secretive place and not meet another human soul. Nobody knows I’m there – other than the sheep and a pair of well-fed ravens – and of course the pixies! It is an enchanted place – festooned in white gossamer; not by the weaving of spiders – but by sheep…

Everywhere, strands of wool cling to the maze of gorse bushes that seclude the area from public view…

Wisps snatched on the wire – at the boundary…

With four barbed horns – they remind me of mini Manx Loaghtan sheep!

and swathes of fleece…

and innumerable take-away parts…

and other left-overs – widely scatter the area.

The gourmet ravens regularly patrol the sky, womping over the lofty canopy – often alighting to keep a watchful eye on who goes there…

Keeping a watchful eye…

Other than the wind’s song, the creaking of aged trees and the ‘cronking’ call of ravens – it is an extraordinarily quiet place; a graveyard for animals and trees alike – a sacred place.

Spirit world.

From different angles – fallen trees unexpectedly shape-shift into fantastical creatures that once roamed Dartmoor long ago; ones imagination can run wild…wolves, wild boar – even dinosaurs!

And even the simple pleasure of finding a feather – can have an unexpected twist…

Black feather…

…with a flash of blue.

So if ever you get spirited away to this Arthur Rackham-ish landscape – maybe expect the unexpected…and remember – the trees are watching your every footstep…

and please be mindful of ‘Lurkio’…

unless of course he has legged it back Down Under!

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Under the Yew. A timeless Widecombe Fair scene from yesteryear.

Extraordinary ponies.

Posted on July 31, 2014 by Something About Dartmoor

Bright and beautiful, great and small…

As a growing girl – I can’t ever remember not wishing for a horse of my own. ‘Unfortunately’ I was born into a non-horsey family – and that we had a field – (ideal for keeping a pony in) – only compounded my longing! Now and again, my father would indulge me a little – with a trip to Dartmoor to see the wild ponies. We would go to the North Moor on a Saturday afternoon – to where the army camp is – and he would drive me all the way round the now dis-used circular road in search of ponies – giving me enough opportunity to stop and get out – should I see my heart’s desire. Dartmoor’s wild ponies being relatively small and my spacial awareness as a girl not being exact – I always hoped that I might be able to fit one in the boot of his car – and take it home to our empty field. Needless to say – having my own pony remained desperately unfulfilled.

Imagine my delight several decades later – when only last Saturday (26th July 2014) – I found the most portable Dartmoor Pony I’d ever seen in my life – it was tiny; forget the boot of my car – my rucksack would have been ample to transport it home! A real cutie – probably just a day or two old. It was not fearful – and its mother was equally at ease in my presence…

It’s funny – because on the outward journey that afternoon – after I’d driven a mile or so from my home – I noticed a large black messenger bird sitting atop a telegraph pole – in an instant – I realised that I had forgotten my camera – and exclaimed – “We’ll have to go back for it!” Tom tried to dissuade me – worried that with any delay – there wouldn’t be enough time to buy one – or two – of his favourite pasties from the baker’s shop in Okehampton – it was already late in the afternoon! I reasoned with him – while doing a three-point turn – that if I saw something special up on the Moor – without my camera to record it – I’d not forgive myself for not going back – or him for just thinking of his stomach…

With my precious camera retrieved from the house – we sped-off with a degree of urgency. After catching the baker in Okehampton – we arrived on Dartmoor in the heat of the late afternoon. We had already decided that as it was such a melting hot day – the top of Rowtor was ambitious enough; there we would enjoy our bought picnic – and then just sit on top of the tor – drink in the views and listen to the skylark…

After an hour or so of bliss – we started to amble back to the car…

West Mill Tor – from Rowtor.

Another perspective.

Firstly – we met a playful lamb – who was happy to pose for my camera…

Peek-a-boo

Next – we came to a group of contented ponies – oblivious to us and seemingly to each other…

As timeless as a stone circle; ponies on the moor.

Timeless as a stone circle; ponies grazing on the Moor.

Nearing the car – the foresight of fetching my camera became clear; the pictures speak for themselves…

Size comparison; another newborn foal.

Don’t worry – I didn’t rustle the little chap – I got that out of my system a long time ago. I eventually realised my dream of owning my horse – as an adult; her name was Wath Jewel – or Jessie – for short.

Jessie.

She was in fact a Dales – a real ‘Black Beauty’ – complete with a white star under her forelock – and a wavy, floor-length tail that rivalled Queen Victoria’s bustle. When I went to view her before buying – from a moorland farm near Bridestowe – I recall my first impression. Leaning on a metal gate – her then owner called her in; almost immediately, two flighty Arab horses sped towards us, from over the brow of a hill – very fine horses but not my type. After an expectant pause – Jessie suddenly appeared; the horse that I’d longed for, wished for since childhood was in sight – and by default of place she was the largest ‘Dartmoor’ pony I’d ever seen in my life – and so had to travel home by horse-box.

In memory of a much-loved horse.

Give me a light…

Posted on July 26, 2014 by Something About Dartmoor

Midnight Madness is an annual, fundraising night-walk on Dartmoor – organised and manned by Dartmoor Search and Rescue Team – Plymouth. A circular walk starting and finishing in Princetown.

Half-way up my staircase – hangs a framed poem by Minnie Louise Haskins – called, ‘God Knows’. It is more popularly known as ‘The Gate of the Year’.

Opening lines.

A few years ago now – I took part in my first night walk on Dartmoor – and I really didn’t know the way – or know what to expect. So I remembered Minnie’s inspiring words and carried them with me – along with an overloaded rucksack packed with all sorts of unnecessary emergency kit – and a map and compass that I didn’t know how to use effectively; still don’t really!

With hindsight – Dartmoor on a clear, summer’s night – is neither scary nor dangerous – in fact, it is a truly magical place to be…

Going, going – last vestiges of daylight.

My first night walk was life-changing and it is something that I shall never forget; Dartmoor became my spiritual home – my sanctuary. A week ago today – or tonight – I completed another ‘Midnight Madness’ walk and loved every minute…

Checkpoint. Dartmoor’s own angels in red jackets – doing a great job. All voluntary.

This year – the Bean Walking Club’s great leader – Old Bean…

Artistic licence. There be pixies on the Moor!

was otherwise engaged, so Beans were thin on the ground at this year’s event…

Moonlit Bean-Feast! 2013 Midnight Madness.

Last year’s moonlit Bean-Feast – eclipsed by giant orbs! 2013 Midnight Madness.

and Tom dropped out at the last-minute – so this year I was a team of ‘one’.

Got the badge.

With a rainbow of badges under my belt – I confidently strode out into the warm night with a considerably lighter rucksack…

Light in the Darkness. Newleycombe Cross.

equipped only with a bottle of mineral water, two very powerful (and worryingly expensive) bike lights that I had borrowed from my brother – and to keep me going; a bag of my favourite black ‘Jakeman’ sweets! By hanging back from the crowd early on – I was able to find solitude – and experience the Moor in silence – and in ‘darkness’ – at an unhurried pace. I saw one female glow-worm beetle – two shooting stars –

Pixie-led not. A bioluminescent Glow-Worm giving me the green-light near Raddick Hill.

Note the difference – or it could be confusing! This is an official DSRT waymarker – not a glow-worm.

– and lots of eyes…

Night senses. I could smell their warm sweet breath in the cooling night air.

As I sit here writing this blog-post – I find myself looking around my room – which takes me back to where I started; the framed poem by Minnie Louise Haskins…

My home is a ‘treasure’ trove of meaningful things that I have collected – or made – even earned – over the course of my life. It is an unusual mix – interspersed by feathers everywhere – mostly black feathers gathered one by one on Dartmoor – over a long period of time. When I have gathered enough – my intention is to use them – to make a realistic life-size model of a raven; sort of like death-free taxidermy!

Sheep – Dartmoor – and ‘The Good Shepherd’ himself – are my other most visible passions!

Dartmoor’s simple pleasures. Walking, finding, gathering.

Set in a familiar landscape? I don’t know the name of this painting but it is by Sybil Parker – a British artist active between 1872 and 1893. (This is an old print that I lovingly re-framed.)

There is a stained glass panel in the window of ‘Saint Wendelin’ – where light streams through…

Saint Wendelin.

Wendelin means wanderer or pilgrim in old German; he is patron saint of country people and herdsmen – and Dartmoor wayfarers! There is a little black sheep made from Welsh slate – and larger pottery ones…

Counting sheep. 1 2 3 – and counting!

and a luminous, white sheep’s skull that I found on Dartmoor – that glows above my mantelpiece…

There is nothing creepy or sinister about it being in my home. The life force that once thought within it – lived and died naturally out on the wild Moor – and because of that I see beauty within its sun-bleached form; it is art by nature’s design. Time – the elements and the Dermestidae beetles – did a fantastic job cleaning it and preparing it for show – all that was left for me to do, was to stain, wax and polish the horns.

Although nature I concede is cruel – I’m comfortable in its presence – knowing that its soul was spared the fate of most sheep; noisy livestock markets – long, grueling journeys in towering, three-tier transporters – to a stark – and increasingly probable – ritual slaughter to end life.

Peaceful presence. (Beardown Man on Slate by Irene Veal)

Rests in peace. (Beardown Man on Slate by Irene Veal – bought at Tavistock Market)

Are you wondering where I’m going with this blog-post? Well, it is here. I wanted to share one glorious instant; snapped earlier this year – on Dartmoor.

While in reverie in the openness of the Staple Tors – I became aware that I had visible company. From the breezy height of a granite outcrop – an adventurous lamb had appeared from ‘nowhere’ and was peering over the edge; suddenly ‘everything’ came together in an epiphanic moment…

I saw heaven opened – and behold a lamb.

For me – it was another reinforcing Dartmoor experience – and for the lamb? The ‘Good Shepherd’ was close at hand…

As for this year’s night walk – how did I do?

Hairy Hands? Taking no chances at that time of the morning. Homeward bound on the A386 rather than going via Moretonhampstead on the legendary B3212!

I made it home to bed before the Sun had risen in the Eastern sky – with another certificate to proudly add to my meaningful things.

My certificate and a couple of ‘midnight’ finds.

Detail from ‘The Light of the World’ by William Holman Hunt.

Dartmoor Ponies; sentient beings too.

Posted on March 30, 2014 by Something About Dartmoor

‘Mothers and Sons’ – Mothering Sunday 2014.

Inquisitive. A mother’s blue-eyed boy.

Vulnerable. You don’t smell right –

Rejected. Dejected.

Anxious.

Intuitive.

Follow you – follow me.

Doubt.

Hope.

Relief. Always hungry.

Contentment. Born with the wind in his hair.

Contented. A full belly – and the wind in his hair.

Spirited. Let a horse have its head.

Happy. Boys will be boys – Tom.

Moving forward – “All beings love life.”

To love – and be loved.

New horizons. A mother’s love knows no bounds.

Connectedness; the Dartmoor Pony who met ‘the friend’ who’d met the Dalai Lama.

Posted on March 29, 2014 by Something About Dartmoor

“All beings tremble before violence. All fear death, all love life. See yourself in others. Then whom can you hurt? What harm can you do?” – Buddha

Metta. ‘kindness’

On an August morning – several years ago – when Tom was nine years old – we decided to visit an impressive Dartmoor maen; a tall, solitary standing stone – called, the Beardown Man. It was a moody, atmospheric day – grey and overcast – and not that warm. As we set off in the car towards Dartmoor – we hoped the rain would hold off.

Impressive Beardown Man. (‘maen’ – Celtic for stone)

On the way – just outside the small market town of Hatherleigh, I noticed a man standing at the roadside – dressed in colourful, full-length robes – signalling for a lift with his thumb. In what seemed like nanoseconds to weigh up the possibilities – I decided there was enough room in the car for one Buddhist monk with an extraordinarily large rucksack – and decisively, he was hitchhiking from a safe place for me to stop.

Through the nearside door – we established where we were both going. He said that he was on his way to a meditation weekend at Totnes – but he wasn’t certain whether he was on the right road. I explained that we were going to Dartmoor and I showed him on the map exactly where I was heading for. I put forward an idea that he would be able to catch a bus – or hopefully thumb another lift from my drop-off point on the main road to Ashburton – and from there it would be straightforward to Totnes. After helping him to put all his worldly possessions in the boot of the car – he got in with us – and we travelled on…

Gracing my backseat with humility and wisdom, this once-in-a-lifetime passenger – illuminated us about his gentle way in the world as a wandering artist monk. His name was Shenyen.

Because our journey together was impromptu – I mused a little while driving, about what first impression Shenyen may have made on my nine-year old son – who was sitting uncharacteristically quietly – out the corner of my eye, in the front passenger seat…

Suddenly and unexpectedly, a bald stranger with an unfamiliar dress-code, had entered the confined space of mum’s car – and was now sitting at the rear – unseen without the use of my driver’s mirror!

What was a boy to make of this experience?

Several years on – Tom remembers Shenyen – and our journey with him to Dartmoor; vividly and with happiness.

Too swiftly, time and landscape whizzed-by – and we arrived at the turn-off to Holming Beam; the start point to our planned walk. I parked the car on the grass verge – just off the B3357- the main road between Princetown and Ashburton. We all got out into the fresh Dartmoor air; Shenyen wisely put his hat on – then heaved his load up on to his strong, ‘broad’ shoulders…

It was time to say our good-byes before the parting of our ways.

Just then – a wild pony came to us unbidden – and stopped unafraid at Shenyen’s feet; probably inquisitive about who this colourful moorland visitor was. Apart from Shenyen’s XL backpack and stout walking-boots – he looked like no other Dartmoor rambler! Shenyen patted and stroked the pony on its forelock – as if in benediction; a fitting conclusion to an all-round, karmic encounter.

Animals know.

Shenyen means – ‘the friend’.

Good karma ‘maen’! It didn’t rain either.

While compiling my previous post about the magic of Hawthorn trees – I came across this image; something about the colours – inspired me to follow on with this one.

Connectedness through colour and all living, breathing things.

Interconnectedness through colour – and all living things under the Sun.

Silhouette. Hawthorn Tree betwixt and between the Staple Tors – Dartmoor.

Hawthorn: In praise of Crataegus monogyna.

Posted on March 22, 2014 by Something About Dartmoor

Hawthorn, Quickthorn, May, Mayblossom, Whitethorn, Haw, Faery Tree…

Inspirational Hawthorn.

‘Just’ one of the things that I love about Dartmoor – are the small, hardy Hawthorns that grow amid the granite clitter of the moorland slopes…

New life under the May.

With sturdy, gnarled trunks – and thick, thorny tangles, of wind-sculpted branches – they give shelter from the biting chill of a Dartmoor Winter – to animals and birds that inhabit the Moor. And in Summer – their dense canopies of dark, green foliage provide a cool refuge – shielding sheep and wild ponies – and even a weary wayfarer – from the heat of the day.

Sheep under the Quickthorn.

Protection.

Gnarled and knobbly…and as old as the hills!

Dartmoor Hawthorn under waxing gibbous Moon.

Dartmoor Hawthorn and waxing gibbous Moon.

Anytime now, Hawthorns will be budding with soft, new leaves – heralding longer, warmer days ahead – and Mayblossom…

Faery Tree near Burrator.

For me though – Autumn is the time when the Hawthorn is at its zenith – laden with blood-red berries – it presents the crowning glory of the turning year.

Hawthorn near Lanehead, Dartmoor.

A glut of berries help sustain the bird population throughout the harshest season…

Winter Haws – beside the B3357 Tavistock to Pricetown Rd – Dartmoor.

The ‘humble’ Dartmoor Hawthorn – and its holy cousin, the fabled Thorn of Glastonbury – both grow upon sites that are linked by an invisible energy – a mystical ley line that tracks across ancient and sacred places – from Cornwall to the Norfolk coast – and beyond…

Several Dartmoor Tors – most notably Brentor…

Rock of ages. St. Michael de Rupe – Brentor – Dartmoor.

– are directly linked by the Saint Michael Alignment…

Glastonbury Tor –

Pilgrimage. And did those feet in ancient time…

St. Michael’s Tower atop Glastonbury Tor.

as are Glastonbury Tor – and the Hurlers stone circle, near Pensilva – the place where I was born! (The haunted house that I was born in is listed here on the Pensilva History Group website.)

Touchstone. Hurlers – Bodmin Moor.

It is probably no coincidence then – that I always feel energised by the simple act of touching a Hawthorn tree – or an ancient stone – when visiting these sacred places and when walking on the hills…

Hawthorn near Rowtor.

Hawthorn at Cheesewring. Near site of Hurlers Stone Circles - Bodmin Moor.

Wind-sculpted Hawthorn on Stowe’s Hill (Cheesewring right). Near site of Hurlers – Bodmin Moor.

Om. (Cheesewring detail.)

Strokeable. Huggable. Tappable. Weathered Hawthorn – Dartmoor.

Refuge in the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey

Ancient bole in the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey.

Inspired by Hawthorns here, there and everywhere – and especially those closest to my heart – on Dartmoor, Bodmin and at Glastonbury – I made a token sprig to hang within my home – to me it symbolises the powerful, magical, inspirational – and everyday practical virtues of this most characterful of native trees…

Perch for swallows and life-giving host to Mistletoe

Life-giving host; Mistletoe and Swallows. Hawthorn on Glastonbury Tor.

In tree lore – it is considered unlucky to bring real Hawthorn inside – so a small sprig crafted from glass, copper and lead is a wise precaution…

In-fused; glass, copper and lead.

In situ.

Dryad; the living tree – Dartmoor.

Shadowland. Hawthorn at Hurlers, Bodmin Moor.

Saint Michael Alignment. Avebury ‘eye’ and beyond…

Set in stone: Love Dartmoor.

Posted on March 15, 2014 by Something About Dartmoor

Enough said.

Carpe diem. Five ‘Beans’ sprout forth…

Posted on March 11, 2014 by Something About Dartmoor

Granite skull above the entrance to St. Leonard’s Church, Sheepstor. It reads – Et Hora Sic Vitae (As the hour – so life passes.)

The arc of our shadows.

On the 6th of March – I received a communication from our Great Leader Old Bean – that he was planning a walk from Princetown to Meavy via Sheepstor – for Saturday the 8th March – and the weather promised to be fair; “No excuses.” was his dictate! It is a favourite route for the Beanies – not just because of the beautiful scenery – or because alot of the route is downhill and on the level – but because there is a rather nice watering hole at the half-way point too, The Royal Oak Inn – at Meavy. The partaking of hot, bacon baguettes, oozing with melted brie and cranberries, has become somewhat of a Beanie tradition.

En route, I always enjoy a quieter moment for reflection; at Saint Leonard’s Church in Sheepstor…

Reflection.

– and Saint Peter’s Church in Meavy…

En-light-enment.

It is a circular walk, starting and finishing at Princetown, that offers everything to a Dartmoor wayfarer; spiritual enlightenment, views that feed the soul – and wholesome pub grub to boot!

It was definitely time to christen my new boots – and rendezvous for 10 am at Princetown carpark – no excuses needed; wild horses couldn’t have kept me away!

Following in the footsteps of Dartmoor Ponies

Where Dartmoor Ponies tread – so do we.

It was one of those rare days when conditions were absolutely perfect – the fresh, Dartmoor air was so clear that one could almost drink it. With the warm Spring sunshine and just a whisper of a breeze – we headed off over the Moor – with the huge fin-shape of Sheeps Tor in our collective sight.

How it gladdened the hearts of five winter-weary Beans – who had longed for this moment to emerge together – out into the light. Old Bean was very pleased with the turnout apparently almost twenty-five percent of his group – plus a dog – and a slow-worm!

We found Brother Slow-worm on a ‘busy’ thoroughfare above Burrator Reservoir – camouflaged by twigs and leaves – and dust, it was lucky we didn’t unintentionally tread on it!

Such a beautiful, gentle creature; who’d emerged to take in the rays too – after the long, wet Winter that was…

Brother Slow-worm; lovingly moved out of harms way.

Along the way, we passed various groups of youngsters training for the Ten Tors – and other people of all ages – exploring and enjoying Dartmoor’s wide open space too. Being able to experience the Moor on such a fine day – really did make my heart sing like a skylark on the wing.

For me – the first Beanie get-together of 2014 – had been a complete tonic; equally refreshing – was my mug of strong, hot brew served up at the Royal Oak Inn at Meavy. I tend to ‘march’ better on a relatively empty stomach – so just tea for me – coupled with the fortifying strength of the occasional Jakemans en route! However, the others would probably compare the first walk of the season – to sinking their teeth into a ‘Royal Oak’ bacon and brie baguette; very gratifying until next time…

Sometimes, even with the best of intentions, it always seems that extra effort is required to wake up early on a day off – and get out of a nice, warm comfortable bed – and head-off to the relatively cold, unforgiving Moor – with an hour’s drive just to get to the start point! I’m so glad I did though; I couldn’t have spent a more enjoyable Saturday anywhere else, and in such easy-going company.

So remember fellow Beanies – ‘Carpe Diem’! Old Bean is expecting at least a fifty-percent turnout next time; hibernation has officially ended – and Brother Anguis Fragilis agrees.

Raven Bean