Hound Tor
Right, so, you know that feeling? When you escape the urban... blare? The relentless, inescapable, thrum? And suddenly, it's just you and the gentle, almost apologetic, crunch of boots on frost? It’s a bit like finding a tenner in an old coat, isn’t it? Pure, unadulterated, yes.
Today, Dartmoor, that vast, windswept, sheep-infested expanse, was promising a spectacle. Or at least, I hoped it was. The sun, bless her heart, was doing her best impression of a startled tomato, turning the horizon a rather alarming shade of crimson. The air, as they say, was crisp. Crisp enough to snap a carrot, you’d think.
Ah, Hound Tor. A place of... memories. Mostly bad. You see, a couple of years back, I’d had the bright idea of visiting in the dead of night. And, as is my wont, I managed to drop my phone. In the dark. On Dartmoor. Finding a mobile phone on Dartmoor at 2am is a bit like trying to find a specific grain of sand on a beach in the Sahara. It's not impossible, just deeply, profoundly, annoying. So, naturally, I’ve always held a bit of a grudge against the place. Which, let’s be honest, is a bit like blaming the pavement for your own clumsiness. But still.
Anyway, armed with the collective wisdom of the internet (which, let’s face it, is a bit like taking medical advice from a parrot), I’d decided I wanted to capture the sunrise from a particular angle. This involved clambering up the side of the Tor, a feat that, it turns out, requires rather more shin than I currently possess. I was, to put it mildly, expressing my displeasure. Loudly. In what might be described as a colourful, if somewhat repetitive, vocabulary. Perhaps this is why they call it the “Blue Hour”? Because of the air turning blue with, shall we say, enthusiastic language?
Having reached my designated spot, I promptly decided I’d made a terrible mistake. The other side, clearly, was where the magic would happen. This necessitated another clamber, resulting in even more scuffed knees and a fresh outpouring of, artistic expression. Eventually, after much fumbling and cursing, I managed to capture something that didn’t look like a blurry smudge.
And then, of course, the retreat. Back down, with less skin than I’d started with, but, crucially, with my phone still safely in my pocket. A small victory, perhaps, but on Dartmoor, small victories are the ones you cling to. Like finding a dry sock at the bottom of a rucksack.