Dartmoor Adventures: Hiking King’s Tor & Encountering Herbal Campervans
Right, well, let's talk about King’s Tor, shall we? You know, the sort of place where good intentions go to die, or at least twist an ankle. Forget your paved roads to perdition; this is more of a "loose rock and existential dread" kind of affair. I've parked nearby more times than I care to admit, gazing at that lumpy track and wondering if, perhaps, birdwatching wouldn't be a more fulfilling hobby. Or competitive napping. Anything, really, that didn't involve the very real possibility of a sprained anything.
And then, of course, there's the whole "daylight savings" debacle. Why, exactly, we decided to collectively mess with the very fabric of time is beyond me. I suspect it's some sort of elaborate prank on the French, though I'm open to other theories. Anyway, the result is that I found myself, late in the day, staring once more at Kings Tor, thinking, "Right, ankles, you ready for this?" I clearly radiated some sort of "lost camper" aura, because every passing walker gave me the kind of look one reserves for someone who's just asked if they sell yak butter at the local Spar.
The real spectacle, however, was a campervan parked halfway up the path. Now, I've seen some creative parking in my time, but this was Picasso-level abstract. It looked like it had been dropped from a helicopter, and was emitting a distinct "lived-in" aroma, which, let's just say, wasn't exactly lavender. Dartmoor parking, as we know, is a bit of a free-for-all, but this was taking the biscuit, and eating it in front of you, and then asking for yours.
Anyway, I soldiered on, determined to get my pictures. And, surprisingly, I did. I even managed to return with a memory card full of images, which, given my general clumsiness, is something of a miracle. The return journey, usually a lonely slog in the gloom, was enlivened by a herd of Dartmoor ponies huddled around an old quarry. They gave me the once-over, clearly disappointed I wasn't carrying bags of carrots. One or two came close, probably hoping for a free back scratch, but I've learned that attempting to provide equine grooming is a risky business, unless you fancy a hoof-shaped souvenir.
Back past the campervan, now smelling distinctly "herbal" – I'm not judging, just reporting – and finally, back to the car. And, you know, I have to admit, despite the ankle-threatening terrain and the olfactory assault from the campervan, I felt a certain sense of accomplishment. Perhaps my road to hell, or at least King’s Tor, isn't quite as paved as I thought. Or perhaps, I'm just getting used to the smell of herbal campervans. Either way, mission accomplished.