Again with all my luggage on my back, I climbed the 123 tall stone steps to the top of the medieval castle where I saw very little beyond the inside of a cloud, though on a lower level there were some views of the ruggedly beautiful coast.
The following day I walked into the middle of nowhere in Dartmoor for the wildest secondhand bookshop I have ever seen. At the end of a winding stone road sat a decrepit old farmhouse that was filled to the rafters with secondhand books. The building was hundreds of years old and as dank as you can imagine, so many of the books were mouldering and musty. Nonetheless, I left with a pile of minor treasures and made my way to St Michael de Rupe's chapel at Brentor (below).
The weather was crisp and clear the following day, so by bus, thumb and foot I journeyed into the very heart of Dartmoor for a perfect afternoon at Wistman's Wood. This ancient tract of twisted oaks is perhaps my most sacred place on earth. I grazed on wild blackberries as I traversed the jagged rocks and mossy outcrops like a mountain goat, though the sight of it would have made my physiotherapist give birth to a bountiful litter of kittens.
But trees are neither fickle nor treacherous, so to remedy my disappointment I took off for Estonia and was reunited with one of my old friends (below). This might be my final post, as the 'chapters' of this particular story have subsided into a gentle epilogue, marked by a lower gear of activity and plenty of rest for both my feet and my anorexic bank accounts. Whether or not there are more tales to tell remains to be seen, and will be another story for another day...