May to June - Dartmoor memories

"Vust er rained then er blawed
Then er ailed, then er snawed
Then er comed a shower of rain
Then er vruz and blawed again"


This is a very neat demotic encapsulation of the Dartmoor climate. I lived and hunted on Dartmoor for some years in my youth. "The Moor" made a huge impression on me. It was and is an impressive place, you could love it or hate it (I sometimes managed both), but it demanded respect. You do not mess with the Dartmoor bogs - "the Stuggy".
In case you are wondering why everything in Devon seems to be female, "Er" is the Anglo Saxon word for "it". At the time when I lived there, Dartmoor was still a wild place. You could ride or walk all day and never see another human. The Crown of the Moor is one huge sponge from which all the rivers flow "Taw and "Torridge, Okement, Dart - these are the rivers of my heart" - this is "The Stuggy", the bogs which do require great respect. For best you need to find the crossing places of the wild ponies, they really know "The Moor".
I have before me a hand-drawn map of the "Stuggy". It was drawn by a man who had worked as a carpenter at Devonport dockyard. When he retired he was hired as a "Moorman" by the then Master of the Dartmoor Hounds, he used to walk the Moor in the Summer and check out the paths. Where maintenance was necessary, he would dig out a drain and put in a cundy made out of Elm planking as Elm does not rot. When I rode the Moor back in the early sixties, many of the drains were still maintained and rideable (with care). The map has advice and warnings scribbled on it in a spidery hand - "Bad Ground" between Shavercombe and Green Hill - which has "BAD GROUND" in capital, bold letters. One I remember with great feeling was Black Lane, which ran from Green Hill to Swincombe Head. This path was across a green bog, it floated - and as you rode along it, it undulated. The path was about 3 foot wide and as you passed along it, the green scummy pools would wink at you and ask you to join them - a foot off the path and that was your lot. I have seen horses so badly stugged out there that they had to be shot. Once (and if) you got through Black Lane and onto Swincombe Head you were back onto "Good Ground" again and I always heaved a sigh of relief. I do not know what this bit of the Moor is like now.
But Dartmore has always required respect. There is an old saying that on "Exmoor you can ride anyway except where you can't". On "Dartmoor you can't ride anyway, except where you can" - requires Respect.
There were no motor roads across my end of the Moor. This did not worry me too much except that my best squeeze lived on a farm on the other side - 25 miles by road. The distance did not worry me, but the fact that petrol had just gone to 3 shillings and 9pence a gallon did. But by the crow, the Squeeze lived only 15 miles away; I could ride across the Moor, but it meant crossing Black Lane. I remember coming back down Black Lane in a fog and about 100 yards visibility - it was ticklish. As I came onto sound ground, a big dog fox jumped out of a rusher bed - I gave him a good "View Holloa"
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Message to Henry Hutchins (Plymouth):

Dear Henry - of course I remember you, it was all a long time ago. I am 71 now and you must have had a very active life - all those marriages - I am still on the first:
Sorry I can't eMail as my machine is wobbling, but very nice to hear from you. As you can see I now live in Normandy, but have never forgotten Dartmoor. Please give my best to J Hoare.
Well cheerio my Handsome,
All the Best, Willy Poole

More for May - Marriage

Did I watch The Marriage? Too right I did – You do not miss important family occasions like that. I would not miss Cousin William’s wedding. You did not know that he is a cousin of mine? Well, a lot of people did not; including, I suspect, William. It all rested with the Duke of Cambridge (Queen Victoria’s wicked uncle). He may have been head of the army, sorted out the terrible state of military supplies after the Crimea – still rides as bronze horse down Whitehall as Duke of Cambridge, but he was still a wicked old rake. All this requires a bit of explanation which involves my Great, Great Grandfather (I always get a bit muddled with “Greats”). His mother was a dairy maid at Windsor Castle; her father was a brick maker in Slough, who retired to a pub in Windsor. His daughter was put on as dairy maid at the castle where she caught the eye (wicked and lecherous) of the not quite so old Duke, which led to the girl becoming pregnant (good eyesight those old Royal Dukes). She produced a son and probably worried about his future (dairy mailing was not well paid) and her being an unmarried mother. It was fortunate that someone showed an interest in the boy and paid for an expensive education and a degree course at a French university, which allowed him to marry the girl who became my maternal Grandmother, whom he later dumped. This seems to suggest that if you are going to be a bastard it makes sense to be a Royal one (as it might have been a lecherous Duke of Cambridge). So now you understand how I might be HRH William Wales’ cousin – that’s all right, just call me “Sir”.
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I now have a “Scootair de Mobilité” which gives me a great freedom of local movement. It is a funny little machine with an electric motor (runs off a battery). The battery is charged off the mains and a charge will give you about 50 Klicks and a top speed of C.8.KPH on 4 wheels. It is definitely not an x country vehicle, but I can get around the shops on it and it gives me a great feeling of independence. I saw my first in London, ridden by a Chelsea Pensioner; he gave it a very good chit. I got mine from Optimum Mobility in Gloucestershire and it changed my life. I can now walk with two sticks, but distance and speed are somewhat limited. On the Scootair (French pronunciation), I can whizz around the town (no licence required) and on the back roads. Normandy is cobwebbed with sunken stone lanes. I can chug about for 2 to 3 hours without meeting any traffic (except the occasional tractor). Pip loves it, we have bought him a dog bag which goes on the front pannier. He rides there like a Duke or a Lord, off the motor road he runs along the lanes. At half speed the Scootair produces a good “dog jog”, on the tarmac he jumps up onto the foot plate and rides between my feet and is rather rude to passing Poodles or Yorkshire Terriers.
The “Scootair” has indeed come as a boon and a blessing to us, it deserves attention from any handicapped person.

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Someone asked me what I thought of Mr Clegg. The answer to that is “very little and very seldom”. I have a problem because for 20 years I shepherded in Northumberland where “cleg” is the vernacular for that dreadful thing – the “Blowfly”. It is not that I am suggesting that he is a possibly lethal pest – it is just that I wonder what can be the use of him.