Walk through Dartmoor to explore themes of memory, family legacy, and the pioneering spirit of women.

English

It's day 8, and the two sisters are once again walking alone. Their journey takes them 110 miles around the edge of Dartmoor in Devon. Today, they slip into a reflective mood, with the churches along their path quietly inviting them to explore. They sense a spirituality that feels older than Christianity itself, and childhood memories softly whisper to Liz.

Letters From The Moors - A Sister's Journey 08

Hello and welcome to the Dartmoor Way with me Liz Scott. I hope you enjoy my 110 mile journey around the outskirts of Dartmoor National Park in Devon in the UK. In August 2023, I completed this walk with my sister and following it I wrote a series of 10 letters sharing my memories and experiences. This is day 8 and today we walked 13 miles between Lydford and Tavistock. Dear Sister, We packed our bags and left the youth hostel after staying for our third and final night. Before starting our walk today, we needed to take Pete to Tavistock to catch his bus back home. We then returned to Lydford to start the day of walking. It was just you and me again. Lydford feels like familiar territory for me. I've stayed at the campsite a few times and walked some of the lanes and tracks. So the first few miles to Mary Tavy were paths I'd walked before. We followed the road from Lydford Church and passed the car park for Lydford Gorge. This was probably my least favourite part of the walk. The cars drove fast and the road wasn't made with pedestrians in mind. Eventually, the track led us onto the moors, which was wet with pools and puddles. Here we were, the two pilgrims again, plodding. We were once again finding the rhythm of each other and checking our map to ensure we stayed on track. It was then that we glimpsed Brentore Church in the distance. It was perched as if it were a tour on the hill. On Dartmoor, tours are the rocky outcrops on the tops of hills. There is something compelling about Brentore Church. We pulled out our cameras to capture the moment, little realising that this church would be our guide for several miles. The church seemed like a guardian angel that was always in the distance, but always keeping an eye on us as we made our way to Mary Tavy. As we walked, I imagined the church whispering words of encouragement. Go safely, it seemed to say. My mind flickered with a memory of Brentore to a time years earlier when I remembered clambering up to the church and watching a swallowed dart in the door to its nest. The thought reminded me of my dad, and I took another path in my mind to another memory. In this memory, I see the dad of old, the dad that recognised this world. This old dad loved the church. In this memory, I realise that Brentore Church reminds me of dad, solid, encouraging, loving me without question, and encouraging me to take steps. It is as if the energy of dad and the energy of the church were entwined as though they were one. My dear old dad is now lost to this world, and for him, landmarks are blurred, his memory has faded with dementia, yet at the level of spirit, at the level of sacredness, at the level of oneness, I realise that the church was a means of connection to him. I don't know about you, sister, but when we got to Mary Tavy Church, there was no need to ask the question, shall we go in? We went in, and disturbed a bustling lady who was arranging the flowers. She was so welcoming and warm, and was delighted to show off her church to appreciative visitors. We admired the rude screen, and were thrilled to realise that it had been crafted by the Pinwool Sisters. We were intrigued, who were these women? How did these women, a hundred years ago, become the carvers of ecclesiastical artwork? My mind rattled with questions. How did they learn to carve? How did they survive in a man's world? How did they run a business? I placed them high on a pedestal in my mind, female pioneers, and I vowed to learn more about them in time. A bit further on, and we came to Peter Tavy Church. Somehow this church felt less ancient. A photo of King Charles and Queen Camilla guarded the door. It didn't have quite the same quirky, warm feel as Mary Tavy Church, but a double-stained glass window of the Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalene delighted me. Wow, these two women have been depicted as the stereotypes of women throughout the centuries. Women are either virgins or whores. Mary, the mother of Jesus, was humble, gentle, and innocent. Then there was Mary Magdalene, who was brandished as a prostitute, even though it never says this in the Bible. Mary Magdalene has been marginalized and forgotten through history, yet she had a place in this church, and I sent a silent greeting to her. I wondered why her image was on the window here. After visiting the churches, we ascended to Great Coombe Tor. It was steep and slow, and I gently sweated as I sipped my water constantly. The view when we got to the top was expansive. We could see Cornwall and all the way to Plymouth Sound. From Great Coombe Tor, we walked on, skirting around Cox Tor. My mind lazily asked whether it was worth climbing to the top, but it would have been an unnecessary detour, and I didn't want to waste my energy reserves. I didn't even bother mentioning it to you. I was concerned you might have said yes, and if you had, I would have had to follow. Do you remember we consulted the map to work out where we could stop for lunch? Our plan was to go to a beauty spot, until we saw, half a mile ahead of us, a road and dozens of cars glinting in the sunshine. The car park ahead was rammed. Our intended lunchtime beauty spot was infested with visitors. There was no need to discuss anything. We stopped where we were, found a rock, turned our backs to the cars, and ate our food. It was a dream, sitting in the sun, and feeling smug that we had missed the crowds. As we sat eating bananas squashed in pita bread, my heart thought of Mum and wished she was with us. She would have loved to have sat on this rock, eating a simple lunch, and drinking in a delicious view. Our long descent into Tavistock took us past wet patches of ground and puddles. Hawthorns stood proudly reflected in pools. We saw a large tree that had fallen, the trunk cracked open, and a metal gate bent and squashed out of shape. I suspected the storm from earlier in the week had caused the damage. The lengthy stretch along Whitchurch Down was one we'd completed just a few weeks earlier. Back then we had been walking another route, and back then we had been soaking wet, the mist had been down, and we had seen very little. But today, with the sun shining, we saw all the views that had been hidden just a few days earlier. We took a photo by the Pimple, which is a round brick hut at the top of a hill near the town, and then dropped into Tavistock. Another day of walking completed, and a sense that our pilgrimage was running out of days. Today had tickled some loving memories of our parents. They are both still alive, but very elderly now. The memories were tinged with sadness as I realised the passing of time. But overall these memories were imbued with gratitude for having been blessed with such loving parents. Tomorrow was going to be our penultimate day, and I really relished being back just walking alone with you.