The barefoot cheek of it- barefoot Dartmoor Crossing
The barefoot cheek of it
Within five minutes of setting off from Trenchford Reservoir, I was ooch ouching across fallen holly leaves through woodland, which descends down to the B3212. It was a good wakeup call.
There is no better way of desensitising your feet to a Dartmoor traverse sans canoes, than to be picking prickly leaves from your soles. I decided to reverse my thinking. This is like a free acupuncture session, I told myself, only it goes on for hours. Good value. And I’ve always liked having my feet touched.
Onwards towards Lustleigh, running now but not fast, I was running on memory, having taken a group this way in the spring. I no longer had a GPS watch of my own, so had borrowed a friends but hadn’t put the route on. That’s how confident I was feeling in my judgement.
By going barefoot, you are exposing yourself to the elements. You are also inviting judgement. I’d once run a cross country race barefooted and was challenged afterwards to explain; ‘why?’. ‘Why not?’ Was my natural response. There is a symbolism attached to barefoot activities that take place outside of beach life, which I think, takes you back to childhood. A sort of innocence and purity.
But it’s also the path of protest. I was treading the path of a worthy lineage. Gandhi and his satyagraha protests. Jesus perhaps in the Judaean Desert, although that surely would have been too hot without sandals? And I’m not sure I can sustain that metaphor for very long. My friend barefoot Joe, who rarely wears shoes. And I’d once walked the Camino Santiago, where pilgrims bore a naked pair of tarsals, which at the time, I’d thought was some kind of penance for something terrible they must have done in a previous life. or this one.
My journey was more prosaic, though not to me. I wasn’t doing this to break an FKT, nor to be the first to do something. And certainly not to gain likes or followers in the hope of boosting my online profile. I was doing it to help raise money for the DPA’s high court case on July 18th.
I also, I realised I had another reason. In cycling they have a name for someone who embarks on a long, self-supported journey. They call them an audax. But this one didn’t feel that long. It felt natural for me to take the difficult path. Only your own.
My brain (and therefore my feet) are not wired that way. This was my journey. And mine alone. Free of guilt, narcissism or self-consciousness, or so I believe. Out here there’s no one else to put an obstacle in your path.
There’s always room for a bit of contradiction however. You don’t have to take my word for it. Take the new testament’s:
He (Jesus) told them to go barefoot, without a staff.
Provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purse, Nor scrip for your journey, neither two coats, neither shoes, nor yet staves. Matthew 10:10
And he said unto them, Take nothing for your journey, neither staves, nor scrip, neither bread, neither money; neither have two coats apiece. Luke 9:3
Carry neither purse, nor scrip, nor shoes. Luke 10:4
He told them to wear sandals and carry a staff.
And commanded them that they should take nothing for their journey, save a staff only; no scrip, no bread, no money in their purse: But be shod with sandals. Mark 6:8-9
The disciples must have been a tad confused.
I’d left my shoes behind, to remove temptation. I was glad I had a couple of times, when the path felt like it had been coated in pebble dashing and DNPA had used gravel to make life easier for people with genuine physical challenges. White centre lines became like a smooth oasis. A baby’s bottom, offering refuge and respite, if that’s not an oxymoron.
Running up through the gorgeous Lustleigh Cleave, between mossy boulders the size of bungalows, was a joy and there was something soothing about seeing a sign directing you to a village (hamlet?) called Water. The rocky paths had trapped water from some previous rainfall and the dark earth separating the stony mosaics like grouting, was like a foot balm.
I remembered a recent talk by Guy Shrubsole, mentioning the Cleave as being an example of natural rewilding, as the commoner’s had allowed the Atlantic oaks here to flourish and benefit from the moisture in the air.
Approaching Manaton, I eyed the council employee wielding a leaf blower, with suspicion. He eyed me with something else, which had a question mark at the end. In my mind, he assumed the role of the saboteurs on the Tour de France, who drop tacks on the ground as the peloton approaches. But he waved me on my way with a friendly smile, directing me across the road towards the tarmac ascent towards Bowerman’s Nose in Hayne Down.
I’d been running up here in later autumn after an educator’s day at the nearby Heatree Activity Centre. It was overgrown with gorse and bracken on the eastern side and boobytrapped with badger’s holes if you happen to be running barefoot. Some of my favourite arrangements of granite are found here, with rocky outcrops which look like they’ve been carefully arranged by a small child, rock upon rock and with logan stones.The bronze age relics between here and two barrows up on Hameldown, make it feel like you’re running back through time.
Heatree is an interesting haven for outdoor lovers. Some say it as the original Baskerville House and Robert Kitson one of the original co owmers, was a friend of Arthur Conan Doyle.
The centre itself was established has in 1863 Plymouth by entrepreneur James Bryant (whose business was sugar and matches). He sold Heatree and Heathercombe Farms to the Kitson brothers, John and Robert.
Its ethos which would be difficult to fault.
By bringing Dartmoor to life, we aim to inspire our guests.
We believe that long-lasting personal development can happen at Heatree.
Time and time again young people leave their stay at the Centre, changed.
We aim to develop physical, spiritual and mental well-being, where all ages and abilities can learn about themselves and build a sense of responsibility and respect for others and the environment.
The turf on the northern side of Manaton, felt like a carpet descending Manaton and then some almost-gloop for the one and only time on this run, before hitting an uncomfortable section of bridlepath towards Kitty Jay’s Grave.
Two Barrows cairn on Hameldown preserved one of the most prestigious Bronze Age daggers ever discovered, adorned with amber and gold. Stone axe heads have even been found on Heatree Down, the tor overlooking the Centre.
I’d deliberately chosen a new line up to two barrows, which would take me on to the western edge of Sousson’s Wood, avoiding some gnarly sections and allowing my feet to recover on the tarmac stretch to Postbridge. Here I stopped at the post office and bought tea and a muffin to takeaway. I put another bit of moleskin under my big toes and set off for the navigationally more demanding by physically much easier, second half of the run.
For what felt like the first time, I could finally hit my stride, running past Powdermills, climbing up to Longaford Tor and Lydford Tor, following the Lych. It started to rain, for which my feet in particular were grateful. The rain felt warm and soothing. Folk who lived and eked out a living in the centre of Dartmoor were taken to Lydford for burial when they died. I was heading for Mary Tavy but my feet may well have been destined for burial.
I crossed the weir over the Western Dart, which is also the beginning of the Davenport Leat, my feet thanking the moor for bestowing some mercy on them! Here I managed to follow a mile of cow poo, my feet finding them like steppingstones and revelling in the squidges.
As the mist came down, the precipitation increased, forcing me to run on a bearing.
This stretch is challenging to read unless you’ve done it many times, with fewer discernible waymarks. I’d already decided to drop down closer to Peter Tavy and take different approach to Mary Tavy, thinking (wrongly) that this would be the lesser of two evils for the feet.
The military track from the edge of the moor is particularly gnarly but the route I chose, down some potholed road, probably wasn’t much better and a little longer. Crossing the Tavy is always a pleasure and the final bridge crossing will stay with me for a while. I passed a granite bench overlooking the river and made a mental note to return here with the family and shoes.
On getting to the Mary Tavy Inn, where I’d left my car, I asked the barman to take a snap for posterity. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to download it from my messages, which is probably how it should be. The body won’t forget and the feet will tell their own story! Next up, the reservoir run; a run between the five main reservoirs on Dartmoor.