There is such a thing as a Dartmoor moment. It’s when you realise you’ve gone wild, walked away from fires and towels and teacups. When, in an instant, soft southern England summons its dark side. When you look at the map, fraying in the gale, and notice you’re far from the chocolate-box villages on the moor’s edge – Lustleigh, Lydford, Chagford. You see the ghosts of forests long gone, land bare and scant, land left by life. “Lost” doesn’t quite cover it. You feel yourself in harsh country. It can daunt the unwary. But come out here with the right kit and character and that Dartmoor moment can be a thrill.
It’s the second evening of our 34-mile trek from Okehampton to Ivybridge, north to south across the expanse. We’re about halfway through the journey, with the hardest yards done. Hangingstone Hill has been summited, mires avoided, sundry black streams vaulted. We reach an old tin working a few hours south of Princetown and take in our surrounds.
