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Great Links Tor

Round Cairn

Fieldnotes

Spike Milligan once noted that "a sure cure for seasickness is to sit under a tree". Now I guess one could either take this 'nugget' of wisdom at face value - can't exactly argue contrary to such logic as long as said tree is not itself located upon a maritime vessel of some description - or assume the surreal comic loon was making a wider point here: that rubbish things happen, deal with it. To be fair, any Citizen Cairn'd worth his/her salt (50% sodium-reduced, naturally) is already well aware that things don't always go to plan, particularly when seeking out stony stuff in the uplands of these Isles. Yeah, tell me about it. Near the top of any such copendium... my apologies, compendium... of 'variable factors' is, surely, the weather? Not that we British like to talk about it, of course.

Now when I was a kid I would frequently wear my 'medieval head' (no, in case you're wondering, we're not talking 'Frank Sidebottom in a bascinet'... although the notion is tempting) in order to visit yet another castle - still do, on occasion - whereby my mum would ostentatiously place a 'weather spell' upon proceedings to mitigate against any unwarranted soakings disrupting the event. OK, not exactly the opening scene of that 'Scottish play', granted. But, now I come to think of it, the ritual did seem to work more often than not. Unfortunately, now that I've got to look after myself, it's pretty clear I do not possess any similar deftness of touch... if only to judge by the pretty grim scene which greets me as I arrive at the copious parking area behind the Dartmoor Inn this morning, said establishment located midway between Mary Tavy and Sourton upon the A386.

To be honest, October is.. err.. probably not the optimum time to go wild camping upon Dartmoor, inclement conditions not exactly an unexpected occurrence; however, what with the Mid Walian wilderness out of bounds due to Wales' tragi-comic administration's ineptly 'political' COVID-19 response, one has to make the best of it. I check the forecast again and, with another front moving in later in the afternoon, decide Marilyn Monroe's maxim "Ever notice 'what the hell' is always the right decision?" is probably apt in the circumstances. Probably. So, with the cloud base suggesting possible scope for some early views before the deluge - Great Links Tor it is, then. Taking an age applying the garb appropriate for the hostile conditions - the delay not so much Arnie-like precise preparation, but perhaps childish forlorn hope for an eleventh-hour stay of execution? - I eventually venture forth from my aluminium carbuncle, purposely heading approx north-east across a level 'heath' occasionally populated by that hardiest of all persons: the dog walker.

The path descends to the River Lyd, flowing from its rising south of Branscombe's Loaf, the pedestrian presented with a choice of method to negotiate the watercourse dryshod: footbridge or stepping stones? Despite the abundant rain of late, the elements of the second option (mostly) stand proud from the torrent so, well, you simply have to, right? I now begin the ascent of the col between the well-matched Arms Tor to north and Brats Tor to south, the latter crowned not by a prehistoric funerary cairn, but by the gaunt profile of the Widgery Cross (a 'commemoration' of Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee erected by one sycophantic William Widgery in 1887). The angle of attack eases, prior to eventually levelling-out out as I traverse wild, inhospitable moor towards 'Dick's Well' (SX551860) some distance to the east, my initial goal being a 'Cairn' shown upon my 'well-thumbed' 1:25k map in that wondrous 'Antiquarian typeface' a little beyond.

As with all high moorland - indeed, the 'uplands' in general - the traveller's state of mind is heavily influenced by the prevailing weather conditions: what would no doubt be a 'Julie Andrews-hands-a-cartwheeling' frolic under a blue sky requiring a no less intense, but more focussed mindset beneath monochrome. This being Dartmoor, however, there is an additional 'layer' inherent in the vibe with the sporadic report of automatic weapons fire from the army's Willsworthy Range to the south only too audible. Now I like to think I'm pretty resourceful, but, hell, I'm no soldier. Furthermore, I'm reasonably fond of my (admittedly rather windswept 'n' craggy) features and would rather wish to retain them... so one observes the tattered red flags flying from the summit crags of Rattlebrook Hill warning the visitor to keep within bounds... and takes heed. Let's face it, it's a hard enough job without some civilian muppet complicating matters further through sheer stupidity (please check the official MoD detail online at https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/dartmoor-firing-programme - or call 0800 458 4868 to be sure).

This was tin-mining country, a fact evidenced by various spoil visible as the walk proceeds; peat working, too, the nearby ruins of 'Bleak House' apparently that of the former site manager... one assumes Inspector Bucket never paid a visit, however? To the north, two isolated rock formations (Higher and Lower Dunna Goat) are my cue to leave the track for the rough hinterland. Here at SX556862, I locate the 'Cairn'. Set in a wild, windswept location, with the aforementioned outcrops complementing the broody, serrated skyline of Great Links Tor itself to the north-west, it certainly looks the part. However something seems wrong, not quite right... since a tinner's gully approaches the 'monument', stopping just short. Hmm, industrial spoil? A distinct possibility, methinks. Damn and blast. Consider:

"Gerrard, S., 1993-2002, Monument Protection Programme Alternative Action Report, 27/04/1993 (Report - non-specific). SDV145710. (27/4/1993) Lower Dunna Goat. Not a cairn. Overlies a gully associated with tinwork. Considerred [sic] under the Monument Protection Programme but not recommended for scheduling."

Unlike our malleable, ductile tin, however, the looming summit tors of the sentinel peak exert a seriously magnetic 'pull' that is impossible to resist, despite my trackless 'off piste' route ensuring the 'going' underfoot is a lot more strenuous than it might otherwise have been - such are the vagaries of exploration, I guess. And on this occasion nothing to do with poor map reading, to be fair. Upon arrival, the effect of all that towering, naked rock is quite overwhelming in its brutal intensity. OK, we aren't talking The Cuillin here... but there is simply 'something' about Dartmoor that 'connects' with some deeply primaeval part of the human psyche, as Conan Doyle knew only too well.

I decide to check out the summit views before the steadily darkening skies see fit to descend upon me like a 'Vitalstatistix the Gaul-ian' nightmare. It is not easy to attain that special 'aerial' view today, the topography of the central tor - c40ft high, ensuring Great Links Tor reaches a very credible 1,939ft - clearly well out of my league. That to the east(ish) is more promising and, despite the ludicrously high wind, I find myself a very precarious perch in due course, away from the other punters who, intermittently, arrive to consume hasty lunches, huddled below to the lee, before executing equally rapid departures whence they came. I note the great summit cairn visible downhill to the southwest (SX549864) and take a precautionary bearing.

For now, however, it is the inclement elements which utterly dominate proceedings, the wind not quite attaining sufficient velocity to dislodge me, but nevertheless making it crystal clear just what 'pitiful, microscopic nobodies' (to use Cope's phrase) we are relative to the 'strategic view', that great algorithm driving the ever-expanding scope of existence. It is exhilarating, my gear thankfully just about up to the task. Just about, mind. Although one can be pretty certain those miners and peat cutters of yore would've found my actions absurd, to say the least. Yeah, times change, albeit in some places - such as this wind-lashed summit - the pace would appear much more glacial.

Taking a fearful battering, I direct my gaze to the north toward the site of the iconic 'tor cairn' surrounding Branscombe's Loaf upon Corn Ridge and, beyond to the right, High Willhays and Yes Tor, highest 'swellings' of the great, billowing, soggy mass that is Dartmoor. Incidentally, whether or not the central tor of Great Links Tor is itself surrounded by the remains of a 'tor cairn' is perhaps a moot point. On balance, I would say not, although there does appear some material in situ. Eastward, swinging subsequently to the south, the scene is devoid of habitation nowadays - seemingly desolate, empty... but with so many tales to tell should one wish to take the trouble. I can see with, I admit, a little nervousness, the advancing weather front promised earlier in the day, wispy 'fingers' of hill fog momentarily engulfing the summit and flanks of Brats Tor, to then relinquish their clammy embrace. Nearer to hand, the eyes pick out the great cairn below. Time to move on.

As I approach it is clear this round cairn is much more substantial than I'd foreseen. Suffice to say, while the 'monument' at Lower Dunna Goat was ultimately a disappointment, the main event certainly is not and is worthy of such an iconic location: a large, round cairn c60ft(ish) in diameter and around 5ft high in places, historic robbing, unfortunately, negating any discussion regarding previous internal detail. Nevertheless, I did discern an apparent - albeit incomplete - ring of small stones just breaking the turf beyond the existing circumference. Now, whether this represents the remnants of a kerb demarcating the original extent of a now reduced footprint... a freestanding feature... or is it a figment of my imagination, well? As I ponder imponderables the weather takes a significant turn for the worse, the tor-side suddenly engulfed with hill fog and subjected to industrial-force, horizontal rain driven upon the unabating wind. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say, but nonetheless, the conditions are pretty grim.

Eventually, the cold bites and a tactical withdrawal in the face of overwhelming Natural odds is called for. Besides, it's getting somewhat late. Thankfully my bearing is sound, Mr Widgery's dodgy erection materialising in line of sight to guide me towards the safety of the outward track. Yeah, I may be beneath the cloud mantle now, yet the rain sees fit to - if anything - increase its intensity, a veritable 'power shower' tracking me all the way back to the car. Indeed, such is the volume of water falling down on me I'd wager dear old Spike might even have reconsidered his seemingly otherwise indisputable advice.

Upon reaching the car I sit within - immobile and a little shellshocked at the abrupt change in environment - and wonder what to do with all the excess water from my waterproofs. Ah, 'what the hell', eh? Saves on washing...
GLADMAN Posted by GLADMAN
10th April 2021ce
Edited 21st August 2021ce

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