Fox Tor: A Tent, a Night Beneath the Stars and a Very Large Bull 19.07.26
There is a curious phenomenon that occurs when a person loads a tent, sleeping bag, water, stove, food and all the other necessities of civilisation onto their back. Distances mysteriously double. The expedition to Fox Tor on Dartmoor was, in reality, only about five kilometres from Princetown. With full packs, however, it felt considerably further. Every rise in the path seemed to harbour ambitions of becoming a mountain.
The adventure began in Princetown, that fascinating settlement perched high on the moor where civilisation gives one last polite wave before the wilderness takes over. Before setting out, they visited St Michael and All Angels Church, one of the most unusual churches in England. Built between 1812 and 1814 by prisoners of war held at nearby Dartmoor Prison, the church owes its existence to French prisoners captured during the Napoleonic Wars and American prisoners captured during the War of 1812. Looking at its elegant granite tower and dignified proportions, it is difficult not to admire the craftsmanship of the men who built it. Later Victorian enhancements, associated with architect Edmund Sedding, added further beauty to an already remarkable building.
Leaving Princetown behind, the route climbed steadily onto the open moor. The landscape gradually changed character. Tracks became rougher, the ground more uneven, and the horizon stretched endlessly in every direction. Along the way stood several of Dartmoor's ancient granite crosses. For centuries these weathered waymarkers have guided travellers across the moor. Many are linked with old monastic routes, particularly the historic Abbot's Way, which connected Buckfast Abbey with Tavistock Abbey. Long before maps and mobile phones, these silent stone sentinels helped travellers find their way through one of England's wildest landscapes.
The route also brought encounters with Dartmoor's famous ponies. They wandered unconcernedly across the moor, entirely at home among the granite and heather.
The weather proved kind on the outward journey. Cloud cover provided welcome shade as the path wound higher onto the moor. The return journey was another matter entirely. The sun emerged with considerable enthusiasm and showed little interest in moderation. Fortunately, she had come prepared with a parasol. Now, a parasol may not feature prominently in most hiking guides. It certainly did not create the appearance of a hardened Dartmoor explorer. It suggested something closer to a Victorian lady enjoying a promenade. Nevertheless, while others sought patches of shade, she remained comfortably protected and entirely unapologetic.
One of the most intriguing landmarks along the route was Childe's Tomb, a lonely granite monument standing amidst the vast openness of southern Dartmoor. The memorial marks the site of one of the moor's most enduring legends. A wealthy Saxon traveller named Childe is said to have become lost during a ferocious winter storm. Realising that he would not survive, he reportedly left instructions concerning his fortune before succumbing to the elements. Whosoever should find and bury his body would would inherit his land. And so it was that the monks, probably from Tavistock Abbey, found the body and staked their claim. Over the centuries the story has gathered layers of folklore, becoming one of Dartmoor's most famous tales and adding another thread to the rich tapestry of stories woven through this landscape.
The surrounding countryside is also forever associated with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. While staying at the Duchy Hotel in Princetown, he found inspiration for The Hound of the Baskervilles. Standing among the lonely tors and sweeping expanses of moorland, it is not difficult to understand why. Even on a clear day, the landscape possesses an atmosphere all of its own. The views from Fox Tor were breathtaking. And with binoculars, even better. A level patch of ground offered uninterrupted views in every direction, and before long the tent was pitched and the evening could begin.
The reward for carrying a heavy pack across the moor is simple: food. The boil in the bag hot meal may not sound especially glamorous, but on a cool Dartmoor evening it tasted magnificent. A hot meal enjoyed beneath an enormous sky felt nothing short of luxurious.
As darkness settled, stars gradually appeared overhead. The Plough was immediately recognisable. They watched hopefully for shooting stars, although the season had not quite reached its peak. In truth, the stillness of the moor proved spectacle enough.
Almost.
Throughout the evening there were occasional rustlings and movements beyond the tent. Investigation revealed an audience of cows. There is an old saying that cattle are attracted to music. Whilst the light music played our adventurers appeared to have been adopted as honorary members of the herd.
Fortunately, she had remembered her earplugs. This may have been the most important piece of planning undertaken during the entire expedition. Earplugs and a parasol - clearly, she was a lover of calm comforts and military planning.
Morning arrived with a spectacular view from the tent doorway. Soft light spread across the moor, revealing mile after mile of open country. It was one of those rare moments when there seemed no urgency anywhere in the world. However, world change there had been overnight; the wider world had continued its restless business. A World Cup had been won, a new face had appeared at Number 10, and countless headlines had come and gone. None of it seemed particularly important on Fox Tor. Eventually, the tent had to come down, rucksacks were repacked and the journey back to Princetown began.
Progress was leisurely. Both were tired. Frequent pauses were required for water, snacks and regular gasping at the scenery about them. They both had a thought at the same time - 'Where's the defib when you need one?' They turned to see the bull appear from no where whilst they reaarranged their bags. Not a bull in the distant, harmless sense that hikers occasionally encounter in a field. This was a bull of almost mythological proportions. Massive shoulders rolled beneath its dark hide. Its chest seemed as broad as a small vehicle. The thick neck carried a head crowned with horns so impressive that they looked as though they belonged on a Spanish fighting bull painted onto a roadside billboard. It was so perfectly bull-like that it bordered on caricature. Until that moment, they walked with the gentle pace of the day. The appearance of this magnificent creature transformed matters instantly. The quiet, collective 'keep calm and carry on' erupted into 'keep calm without looking like your walking over hot coals.' Remarkably, tired legs rediscovered their energy. Muscles suddenly found fresh reserves. The bull watched.... poised.... in case they should falter. He stood surveying the landscape with the calm confidence of a beast that knew perfectly well he outweighed every human present and therefore had absolutely nothing to prove. They didn't stop until South Hessary Tor where they could look back at the now dot of an animal, snorting in the heat.
Before long, Princetown reappeared on the horizon and the adventure drew to a close with obligatory fish and chips and a much needed rest in the shade.
In little more than twenty-four hours, the journey had delivered ancient history, monastic waymarkers, Dartmoor ponies, folklore, literary inspiration, magnificent sunsets, star-filled skies, excellent camping food, curious cows and one unforgettable bull. Most importantly, there had been no rush (apart from the bull encounter)
For a place little more than an hour and forty minutes from home, Fox Tor offered an extraordinary sense of escape: vast landscapes, deep silence, fascinating history and a night beneath the stars. By the time Princetown disappeared in the rear-view mirror, it already felt a very long way away indeed.
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