This is item three from Robert Dymond's book: "Things New and Old Concerning the Parish of Widecombe-in-the-Moor and its Neighbourhood" (1876)

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ALL ROUND WIDECOMBE

Widecombe-in-the-Moor-the wide combe or valley in the Forest of Dartmoor, is a place as well worth knowing as exists in broad Devonshire. You may reach it from Bovey Tracey railway station by a road passing under Hey Tor rock, five miles uphill, disclosing charming views over South Devon; one and a-half of comparatively level ground, amongst granite tors; and one mile of unmistakeable down hill, into the vale of Widecombe. From Ashburton Station the distance is only six miles, and the road is less steep and exposed. After a long drag up-hill to the open moor, you travel for some distance at an elevation of 1,300 feet above the sea, on a sort of table land of breezy down and scattered rocks; and when you have just begun to realize that nothing lies before you but granite tors and uncultivated moorland, you become suddenly aware of a. deep sylvan valley, full of green meadows, picturesque clumps of timber, and fields tilled as far up the slopes as the enterprise of the husband- man may venture. Amongst these are scattered grey homesteads, singly or in groups, with walls of rough hewn granite, and roofs of thatch, from which ascends the light smoke of peat fires. This is the Vale of Widecombe. From Cockingford Mill, suggestive of the cucking-stool for village scolds, where the Buckland Woods end, the valley runs nearly due north for four miles to Notsworthy (vulgarised to Natsworthy), where it closes as a coombe. Here, a mile wide, there, narrowing to less than a furlong, the whole course of the valley is visible at one view. Halfway in its length, a larger cluster of houses, shaded by groups of foliage, surrounds the pinnacled tower of a long, low church. When the sunshine leaves the eastern side of this tower, the labourers on the slopes of Top Tor and Bonehill, and Honeybag, know that noon has passed and the dinner hour is at hand. It would be hard to believe, if it had not been proved past doubt, that the site of the church, so far down in the valley, is more than 800 feet above the sea level, or twice as high as Warberry, the loftiest of the Torquay eminences. Though the colder blasts that sweep the moor, howl far over the heads of the villagers, the moist winds from the south rush through this valley as through a funnel. No wonder that when it snows, the South Devon people declare that

“Widecombe folks are picking their geese,

Faster, faster, faster.”

A heavy fall of snow soon obliterates the traces of their unenclosed roads over the moor, and may cut them off from the outer world for weeks together. Hence, as winter draws near, the prudent Widecombe housewife takes care to be provided with groceries and salted pork or mutton, for what may prove a long blockade.

We will suppose, however, that it is on a bright summer noon that the tourist to whom this is an unknown land, guided from Bovey or from Ashburton by the indispensable Ordnance map, has met us by appointment at “ Newhouse,” near the spot where the roads from these two towns meet. Our purpose is to make the circuit of Widecombe Vale, after looking round at the many objects of interest in the place of our chosen rendezvous. The “ Newhouse” is found to consist of a few ruined walls. Not long ago it was a roadside alehouse, where carters wasted their time, and so the owner considerately pulled it down. To the east are Rippon Tor, Hey Tor, and the intervening Saddle Tor, prominent objects from the South Devon Railway at Newton, as well as from the higher parts of Tor- quay. On the peak of Rippon Tor, 1,563 feet above the sea, the Ordnance surveyors threw up a small stone tower, about ten feet high. On the slope of the hill is a Logan stone, locally known as The Nutcracker, plainly defined against the sky. It looks small from where we stand, but it is really a massive block of granite, 16 1/2 feet long by 4 in thickness, and though it has lost some of its logging power, it may still be moved by the leverage of a stout staff. A gunshot or two to the north of Hennesbury Gate, and close to the parish boundary wall, is a very perfect hut circle, or aboriginal dwelling, known from mediaeval times as Seven Lords’ Lands, for it is a boundary point where seven manors meet. Avoiding the bog where a heron stands watching by Grey Goose Nest, while over- head the plover wheels complaining, a half-mile walk to the west brings us to Wittaborough, where, besides many a market town and village, we may descry afar off the little cluster of white houses which men call Torquay. The heap of stones by which we stand is piled ten feet high over the kistvaen - stone chest or coffin—of some forgotten chief. Some lesser cairns lie near at hand. Iconoclast waywardens have removed one which formerly stood where an open moorland road begins its descent to Blackslade and Tunhill, the two farms which nestle in the side of the hill, a few hundred feet below. The kistvaen thus uncovered by the spoilers is still perfect with the exception of the cover stone, and so long at least as our Mr. Editor retains the ownership of the manor in which it stands, the rude coffin will be safe from further mutilation. Like most of its kind, it is only about four feet long from north to south, by about two feet in width and depth, for, according to the usage of his day, the body of the occupant was doubled up, with chin resting on the bent knees. But it is not only in their sepulchral works that we shall here find the traces of our remote ancestors; for as we look round we become aware that the whole area of the slopes between Wittaborough, where we are standing, and the opposite ridge of Top Tor, Pill Tor, and Tunhill Rocks is mapped out in rectangular enclosures, averaging about an acre each, whose stone wall fences, though overthrown, have been‘ only partially obliterated by the moss and growth of centuries. These enclosures are intersected by track ways, and in many of them will be found very perfect hut circles, with doorways opening to- wards the south. Dartmoor affords few more complete examples than this of a rude aboriginal settlement, probably a summer pastoral station, where the live stock could be assembled at night for protection against marauding men or beasts of prey.

It is time now to proceed on our northward way, for the circuit of the valley is longer than it looks. Nevertheless, we shall not readily tire ; our path is over springy turf, and the air at this elevation is exhilarating as champagne. Presently, we notice in the valley below, the two huge blocks of Rugglestone, another Logan, or rather two Logans, of larger dimensions than the Nutcrackers. It is said that they can only be moved with the assistance of the church key ! The Rugglestone is an immense oblong block, which, as Rowe relates on the authority of the late Rev. J. H. Mason, of Widecombe, “is of the computed weight of one hundred and ten tons.‘ This huge mass rests on the supporting rocks beneath, so as to form a combination of the Cromlech character. Its sides measure, respectively, about twenty-two, nineteen, seventeen, and fourteen feet ; in mean thickness it is about five feet six inches. . The other Logan is a flat stone-, about eleven feet in length by nine in breadth, but not more than fourteen or sixteen inches thick ; which can be set in motion by the pressure of the foot.” The Rugglestone is a boundary mark between the two manors of Dunstone and Widecombe Town.

Regaining the line of the Chagford road, we observe on our right the bold fortress-like mass of Houndtor, a rocky outwork of the moor, commanding the wooded valleys of Manaton and Lustleigh’s famous Cleave. Half way between the tor and the road from which we have diverged, is another good specimen of the Kistvaen, not covered, in this instance, by a cairn, but surrounded by a circle of once upright stones. A simple mound and unwrought headstone by the roadside marks the site of a more modern grave. A poor old woman, called Kay, having hung herself, was laid here under cross roads, without the rites of Christian burial. There are many such graves of suicides hereabouts, and the country folk shudder as they pass the whisht spots by night.

Leaving to our left the substantial stone fences and fir-planted summits of Hedge Barton, we mark where, on the opposite hill,

“ On the very edge

Of the vast moorland, startling every eye,

A shape enormous rises ! High it towers

Above the hill’s bold brow, and seen from far,

Assumes the human form ; a granite god,--

To whom in days long flown, the suppliant knee

In trembling homage bowed. The hamlets near

Have legends rude connected with the spot,

(Wild swept by every wind,) on which he stands

'The Giant of the Moor ! ”

So sung Dartmoor’s poet Carrington of the remarkable pile vulgarly known as Bowerman’s Nose. Bowerman is said to have lived in the Conqueror’s time, near Hound Tor. His effigy consists of five layers of granite, piled nearly forty feet high, by a freak of nature, in rude resemblance to the human form.

Proceeding Westward, we may chance upon one for whom the moor is a second home, and whose presence has been familiar to the inhabitants of Torquay any time for half a century or more. We pass to the rear of his strongly-built dwelling at Heatree, to gain the watershed ridge which blocks the northern end of Widecombe Vale. Here a divided stream sends part of its water northward towards the Teign, while the remainder flabbergastows southward to the East Webburn, and finally swells the torrent of the Dart in Buckland Woods. Briefly pausing to notice the charming vista of the wide coombe, with the ever conspicuous Church tower midway down its length, we mark the large, circular, hill-side enclosure called Berry Pound; and, mounting the hill—carefully, by reason of the bogs about the sources of the East Webburn—-draw near the still more remarkable and better known Grimspound. It will grow dark if we linger to determine whether this great group of hut circles, with its strong encircling wall, its paved central trackway, and its careful provision of spring water, was a fortified military post or a mere station of aboriginal shepherds and cowherds. We must reserve for the evening pipe our study of what Rowe and the learned authors of papers in the Transactions of the Devonshire Association have to say on this head, while we mount, as old Grim mounted, the great, broad back of Hameldown, and finally, from an elevation of 1,700 feet above the sea, look round upon a view which embraces all Devonshire. Here, if the wind favours, we may hear the dull boom of the sunset gun at Plymouth. Northward stand the yet higher summits of Yestor (2,050), and Cawsand; and beyond the dwarfed hills of North Devon we may discern the silver streak of the Bristol Channel, and the haunts of the wild red deer on Exmoor. Exeter lies hidden by the ridge of Haldon; but the houses of its higher suburbs at Pennsylvania and Pinhoe, may be distinguished towards the east. On very rare occasions, and with the help of a good glass, we may even descry the dim outline of the Isle of Portland. West- ward the sunshine is reflected from the slate roofs of the convict settlement at Prince Town; but there are few other signs of life and human habitation on the rolling hills and grim tors over which the eye ranges on this side. It was there that in the Autumn of the year 1873, our military manoeuvrers were so persistently baffled by mists and drenching rains. The ground where we stand was marked out for a camp; but strategic reasons, mysterious to civilians, led to the selection of the south-western or wettest quarter of Dartmoor as the scene of operations. The writers of smart articles for the London dailies described the moor as a howling waste, given over to never-ceasing cloud and storm; little knowing that while the regiments were struggling, ankle-deep, in bog and water, the eastern quarter of Dartmoor enjoyed comparatively fine weather. By the traces they have left on Hameldown, it would seem that the military chiefs of old knew better how to choose their ground. The soil about us is rich in their sepulchral remains. On the ridge by which we now descend from The Beacon we pass their numerous barrows, including the twin mounds called Two Barrows, which lately yielded some curious remains of ancient weapons to the search of Mr. Spence Bate, as recorded by him in the Transactions already referred to. In Rowe’s Perambulation of Dartmoor will be found some interesting particulars of the great trackway or boundary line which here, crossing Hameldown, divides the Forest into its northern and southern districts. On our downward way we notice, in the now shaded depths of the valley, the trim grounds surrounding the rural mansion of the worthy squire of Bag Park, and the older homestead well known to fox-hunters as Wooda; this is now the Manor House, vice North Hall, where the knightly family of Fitz- Ralph once held hospitable state under the shadow of an older church than that we are fast approaching. The deed is still extant by which, in 1283, Roger, the son of Sir Ralph le Rus, sold to the Dean and Chapter of Exeter an acre of land in Wodehaye, with the advowson of the Church of St. Pancras at Widecombe, and the Chapel of St. Leonard at Spitchwick; but of the donor’s name, as of his tomb, we shall here find no trace.

The knight’s bones are dust,

And his good sword rust,

His soul is with the saints we trust.

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