Some days I look out of my window and can’t see Dartmoor, and it makes me want to ride up there even more because things move quickly and I’m struck by a fear of missing out - no two valleys are the same and cloud inversions are common - and those days that appear to be the worst can often mean striking gold.īecause it’s always windy things change in an instant up here and the contrast can be stunning. On a bright day this huge granite batholith dominates the view from almost anywhere in the county, but on a day like this, if you didn’t know it was there you would never know it existed, and that can make it even more alluring. Knowing that no two days are ever the same adds to the beguiling nature of this place. On a bike you rollercoaster in and out of every fold of an ever-changing landscape, always making use of every available sprocket, for there is no flat road to be had here. To cycle across Dartmoor is to feel every contour on roads laid ribbon-like across the land with scant regard for the easiest way. Others, the ones that make you wonder and make you glance over your shoulder when the mist is swirling, are much more sinister. Some tales are of course fanciful, fuelled by one too many ales. You can’t appreciate its fickle personality, its cantankerous conditions or its rawness unless you have ridden there and felt the burn of the wind and witnessed an achingly beautiful view teasingly disappear in a matter of seconds.ĭartmoor’s rich fabric, visible on the hillsides, showcases the history of people farming and living on its land since around 4,000BC, so it’s no surprise that its mystifying personality has given rise to so much myth and legend. It’s not a place that can be labelled, or described and understood, it is somewhere that needs to be experienced. Rising to a high-point of 2,037ft, technically it meets the criteria for being classed as a mountain, but nobody ever claims that. Someone wise once told me that you always owe Dartmoor an extra layer, and today is no exception to this rule.ĭartmoor is a 394 square mile National Park in the South West of England. It’s not the first time I have underestimated this terrain, and it won’t be the last. How wrong could a forecast be? I’d be annoyed, if I didn’t have the local knowledge that Dartmoor is anything but predictable. Barely acknowledging my existence it continues past and disappears into the cloud, as if it were an apparition. Its thick coat is matted and wet, but unlike me it is well-suited to these harsh conditions, as are all of the animals that live up here. The animal ambles forward and I can now clearly see the huge stocky frame of a highland cow, its immense horns splayed far beyond the width of its body. The fog is claustrophobic and my senses need recalibrating. The wind whistles through brittle gorse, bending the weaker bracken that recently turned from lush green to a late autumn burnt sienna, and water flows steadily down the single-track lane towards me making islands of my feet. I need to keep moving but the faint outline of a big animal is drifting in and out of view on the road ahead of me.
This road is exposed and I’m wet to my core, shaking my arms in a vain attempt to encourage blood back to my fingers.
I’m later than planned and slower than expected. Squinting into the swirling fog, rain trickles from my helmet and onto my face, collecting grit from the road and depositing it straight into my eyes.
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