The Wilds of Dartmoor

Days before the Easter break I realised that I was faced with a lazy weekend of absolutely nothing. I embarked on a last-minute scramble to plan a trip out of the city, and on Thursday evening ended up at the elegant Victoria Coach station, waiting for hours on a disorganised bus service.

In the morning I set off on foot from Newton Abbot.

The sun was setting on Bellever as I crossed the old bridge into the village. As soon as dusk had settled into total darkness I went out walking again. London is polluted not only with fumes but with light and noise. For the first time in England I experienced true night. At the river I lay down on the ruins of the old clapper bridge and with my head hanging backwards I imagined that the silvery waters were really a rippling nightscape.

I sprained my ankle and ended up hobbling in pain by the end of the day, but nonetheless, I completed another 25kms. 

I limped along to Wistman's Wood, an ancient tract of twisted oak forest renowned for it's eerie atmosphere. Even the most rational locals regard the woods with a degree of uncertainty. I went carefully off and found an oak who gave me permission to sit a while in his old gnarled arms. With feverish anticipation I approached him and lay myself down, bent backwards over a large root as though I had slipped and broken my spine. My mind swiftly sank into deeper rhythms as he let me in to his world and showed me what it was like to be an oak.

The silence was vibrating with an inaudible thrum of life so much older and patient than I.

I couldn't but help thinking that I was like a fly on the back of an elephant, fleeting and fickle against his timeless steadfastness.

When I finally stood up and the feeling eventually returned to my legs I found to my amazement that I could no longer feel the pain in my foot. I made my way out of the woods and ran most of the way back, leaping over rocks and bounding up slopes. I came looking for magic and it found me. There is more of God's character to be discovered in the gentleness of an old tree than in a church building.

However, I was lucky that he was an oak, as they are known to be friendly. Had I been in an elm forest I would never have dared to linger...