The driver, making a judgement call about me I suppose, stopped at a pub called the Kestor Inn and let me off. I didn't immediately get my bearings, so I walked up and down Manaton for a while until I swallowed my introverted pride and asked a lady for directions to the church which sits atop the path into the moor.
Once I found the church I began the trek as my map instructed. I passed through a gate onto the lower moor and, able to see the legendary 'Bowerman's Nose' rock up ahead, I opted to follow my instincts.
This proved to be a mistake as the section of moorland which I passed over was fenced off halfway up. To the right of the fence were thick, thorny bushes with no pathway through them.
Having walked back and forth through the long grass looking for a gap in the fence to no avail, I had a sudden rush of aggravated determination and decided to just traverse the hill through the thorny bushes. At their worst they came up to my chin as I ploughed through them. I tripped on rocks and cut my shins through my jeans as the hill got steeper and the bushes thicker, but looking back it was quite clear I couldn't return the way I came, and the spectacular rocky tor atop the hill kept my spirits up and kept me going.
The vast, rolling hills and untouched natural landscape surrounding me came up and gained breathtaking clarity as I climbed higher - an endless cascade of beautiful green and little to no evidence of human interference for what seemed like a hundred miles in any direction (even though I knew full well that there was a pub and a bus stop round the corner).
By the end of the stretch the hill had gotten so steep that I was no longer walking but climbing. Finally I reached the top by the palms of my quivering hands and the highest Dartmoor panorama under the deep blue sky was exhilarating as I straightened my back and waited for my breath to return.
There were sheep roaming on the hilltop and in the distance I could see the Hound Tor (the cluster of rocks that featured in the Sherlock episode The Hounds of Baskerville and supposedly inspired Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to write the original novel in the first place), which was the main sight I came here to see. I started back down the hill on the other side and the walk to Hound Tor was an easy one.
Once I'd made the climb to the tor I sat on a rock and ate my lunch. I felt I could stay there all day, but I was on a deadline to be back in Manaton before the last bus back to Newton Abbot departed and left me stranded.
I got up and walked down the steep hill from the tor and came to the ruins of a medieval village. It was quite interesting; the shapes of long-vanished stone huts remained at their bases. From there I went further on down into the woods and crossed Becca Brook, passed through the shady woodland and came back onto the open moor.
Taking a left turn at the sign to Leighon, I drifted from the path and became lost again. For the most part I was content with being lost; this was the most beautiful corner of England I'd ever seen. I was the only person for miles in any direction and I could see the tors I'd passed earlier on the horizon to my left so, even without the path, I still had my bearings.
However, I also began feeling tired and short of breath as I traversed steep, rugged slopes in my attempt to find my way back to Manaton. At one point I came to another wooded area and decided to run through it, hunched and snarling like a beast (aping the dream sequence from An American Werewolf in London), just because I wanted to and there was nobody there to laugh at me for doing so. During the run I dropped my coat without realising and had to retrace my steps in order to find it.
I passed through a gate in hope that it would lead me back but instead I found myself staggering clumsily down a hill and landing feet-first into a boggy marsh. Thankfully, the low branch of a tree was within reach so I easily pulled myself free. Irritated, and beginning to grow concerned that I might not actually find my way back in time to catch the last bus, I began to run, as fast as my exhausted legs could manage, back the way I came. Cows and sheep stared bemusedly at me, almost mocking me with their glares like the lost, unprepared tourist I was. But I was being dramatic.
After an exhausting ramble, in which I almost stopped to fall to my knees on several occasions, I found myself back at the top of the hill and on relatively stable ground. Manaton should have been ahead but the moor mist prevented me from seeing it. For a good hour my bearings were irrelevant. The afternoon mist had lowered slightly but even so I could not glean a slither of the modest village's skyline in any direction. The ground was damp, the damp seeped through the soles of my ill-chosen shoes and now my already tired feet were soggy to boot. The mist pinched my nose and cheeks and my stinging eyes were moistened in the freezing cold. I wanted now to be off this wretched moor as soon as I could be. A strong coffee and a warm armchair were in order.
To my relief, through the parting fog I could make out the shape of a close by cluster of shrubs, the centrepiece being a gnarly, crooked tree - bereft of leaves (understandably in this late autumn). Beneath the tree stood an upright figure, rather still - a woman, facing toward the town, I hoped. Finally! The first human being I'd crossed paths with in hours.
I upped my pace to a modest jog to approach my would-be guide. 'Excuse me,' I called. 'Sorry, is this the right way to Manaton?'
My friend did not reply. She remained motionless as I approached, closed in and eventually took hold of the terrible realisation. She was not standing, she was hanging.
A weathered rope stretched from the lowest branch of the petrified oak, about a metre down to her neck. Her face - clearly beautiful in life - twisted into a pained, sad snarl and her head was lopsided at the neck. She was clothed in a thin, grey dress which was soaked through and clinging to her delicate frame, and her skin was as white as the moorland fog.
'Oh - no, no!' I groaned upon beholding all of this. I stepped back out of morbid embarrassment, as though I had committed some deathly faux pas in requesting her attention a moment before. Again I moaned, I raised my hands to my eyes and trod clumsily this way and that as I slowly got to grips with what hung before me, less than a foot from the dewy ground.
As I slowly regained my senses I caught sight of the most curious part of the whole grisly situation - the corpse's left hand was stretched out at her side, fingers closed around something. I leaned in and squinted and realised there were strawberries in her hand. In a sudden trance I crept toward the body and carefully took the strawberries - her cold, rigid fingers making it slightly difficult as though beyond life she was still reticent to let me have them. As I closed in to retrieve the fruits I beheld her glazed eyes upon her crooked face and I would not have been completely shocked were they to then suddenly glance toward me, accusingly. But she did not stir.
With tears forming in my eyes I pulled the stem from one of the strawberries and ate the fruit, staring sadly at the hanging corpse, like a pale ghost floating in mid air, as I chewed. Beyond her I saw the beginnings of the village. It seemed a petty triumph now, in light of what I'd just stumbled upon.
Simultaneously relieved and terrified, I ran into a waking daze for the comfort of the fringes of civilisation. I passed through a gate that I'd avoided earlier because a large gathering of cows had been clustered around it. They were gone now. This took me onto a smooth, tarmac lane that helped me regain my calm. By now it had hit home how ridiculous I was being before, fretting about missing the bus and being stranded on the moors - there was still an hour until my bus and I was already close to the stop.
Even so, I punched the air when I saw the sign for Manaton and, soon after, the inviting shape of the Kestor Inn. I stopped for a pint of Devonshire's finest ale, perched in the serene beer garden and took out my notebook to write my adventure down before it faded from memory. Parts of it seemed to already have faded and as I tried to recall every little detail I went hazy and felt as though I'd fallen into a near-dream state. I looked up and saw something almost human silhouetted in the distant moor, and with a dismissive shrug I began to write. It was, ultimately, a cheery afternoon's ramble and I'd gladly go back to Manaton.
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