Fancy straying away from the pavement? Why not head to Dartmoor, where rain is plentiful but tarmac scarce
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Adharanand running in Dartmoor. Photograph: Marietta d'Erlanger
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If you plan to go running in Dartmoor, you can’t be too precious about the weather. All night, the rain has been hammering down on the roof of our holiday cottage near the village of Brentor on the western edge of the moor. Every time I wake up, I think about my run the next morning. Will the hills be washed away?
The next morning, while my family – fledgling runners at best – tuck into pancakes and toast, swanning around barefoot on the heated stone floor, I set off across the hill that rises up outside the front gate.
The ground is well and truly soaked. Almost from the first step, I’m splashing through puddles. At first it is freezing, but after a while my feet begin to glow with warmth.
Rather than plan a route, I decide to follow my nose. I soon find myself in the midst of a barren, almost desert landscape, with no other living creature in sight. Just hills of rock and tough, brown grass, without hardly even a tree or hedge. I once went running across Dartmoor with a guide and he took me to all the most scenic spots. Running alone like this may mean I miss some of the local highlights, the most Hobbit-like valleys and dramatic tors, but there’s something exciting and adventurous about being out here alone, making my own way.
As I run, the weather seems to shift through the seasons at will. One minute I have my head down and I’m scrambling through a freezing hail storm, the next minute the clouds have parted and a beam of warm sunlight strikes my back like a gift from the heavens.
At one point, I emerge from the wilderness to cross a road. I feel like a wild animal who has stepped into the human world for a second, before rushing across the road and back into the wasteland.
Eventually I see some strange lumps sticking out of the ground that look like the roofs of some buried cottages. Intrigued, I run towards them, only to discover a military firing range. MoD warning signs stick up out of the grass here and there. The wind and the silence of the moor suddenly feel ominous. Should I be here? I decide to turn back. I’ve already run further than I intended to.
On the way back, with so few landmarks, it’s easy to get lost. As the rain begins to rattle down on me again, I start thinking it was irresponsible to set out alone, without a phone or a map. What if I twist my ankle?
My breathing starts to get quicker as I run harder, trying not to panic. One wrong pathway could lead me miles off course. And then I see it, our little house, a refugee tucked down in the valley, out of the wind. I skip through the puddles, sprinting to the door.
After a shower, sitting by the log burner, my body tingles as it does after you’ve taken a dip in the cold, English sea, or come out of a Japanese onsen. I feel like I’m radiating health, as though I’ve been submerged in nature, dipped head to toe in its freshness.
But there’s no time to sit and bask in it. The breakfast is finished and the rest of my family are now ready to explore. So, swapping trail shoes for wellies, it’s back into the elements. Luckily, the sun has come out, and we enjoy a pleasant walk up the nearest tor to the highest working church in England.
The tiny Church of St Michael de Rupe sits on the rocky outcrop like something from a gothic horror film. My children run around pretending it’s the charms classroom at Hogwarts.
By the time we make it back from the hill – which was a little further than anticipated – we’re all exhausted and happy to flop down in front of a film as the winter sun sets outside.
The next morning, I decide to run an easier route along an old disused railway line. It’s now a cycle path, so I shouldn’t get lost. However, once I get going, I find myself disappointed to be running along a straight tarmac path. The wide hills beckon me on either side, and I suddenly feel trapped on the concrete. Even though this is what I usually run on at home, I’m missing yesterday’s squelchy mud and the buzz of slipping and sliding as I run; of traversing the open countryside. This path feels far too tame. So, at the first opportunity, I find a stile and hit the trails again. Although I end up having to retreat out of a field in the face of some frisky cows, and crossing a stream up to my knees in icy water, it’s much more fun.
Dartmoor is not the place for running along tarmac pathways. It’s a place to experience the full gamut of wild running. And if it’s raining? Even better.
The cottage in Dartmoor was booked through Classic Cottages – the UK’s leading independent cottage holiday company and specialist in the south-west. For more information and to book one of Classic Cottages’ coastal and country holiday discoveries, call 01326 555 555 or visit www.classic.co.uk.
The next morning, while my family – fledgling runners at best – tuck into pancakes and toast, swanning around barefoot on the heated stone floor, I set off across the hill that rises up outside the front gate.
The ground is well and truly soaked. Almost from the first step, I’m splashing through puddles. At first it is freezing, but after a while my feet begin to glow with warmth.
Rather than plan a route, I decide to follow my nose. I soon find myself in the midst of a barren, almost desert landscape, with no other living creature in sight. Just hills of rock and tough, brown grass, without hardly even a tree or hedge. I once went running across Dartmoor with a guide and he took me to all the most scenic spots. Running alone like this may mean I miss some of the local highlights, the most Hobbit-like valleys and dramatic tors, but there’s something exciting and adventurous about being out here alone, making my own way.
As I run, the weather seems to shift through the seasons at will. One minute I have my head down and I’m scrambling through a freezing hail storm, the next minute the clouds have parted and a beam of warm sunlight strikes my back like a gift from the heavens.
At one point, I emerge from the wilderness to cross a road. I feel like a wild animal who has stepped into the human world for a second, before rushing across the road and back into the wasteland.
Eventually I see some strange lumps sticking out of the ground that look like the roofs of some buried cottages. Intrigued, I run towards them, only to discover a military firing range. MoD warning signs stick up out of the grass here and there. The wind and the silence of the moor suddenly feel ominous. Should I be here? I decide to turn back. I’ve already run further than I intended to.
On the way back, with so few landmarks, it’s easy to get lost. As the rain begins to rattle down on me again, I start thinking it was irresponsible to set out alone, without a phone or a map. What if I twist my ankle?
My breathing starts to get quicker as I run harder, trying not to panic. One wrong pathway could lead me miles off course. And then I see it, our little house, a refugee tucked down in the valley, out of the wind. I skip through the puddles, sprinting to the door.
After a shower, sitting by the log burner, my body tingles as it does after you’ve taken a dip in the cold, English sea, or come out of a Japanese onsen. I feel like I’m radiating health, as though I’ve been submerged in nature, dipped head to toe in its freshness.
But there’s no time to sit and bask in it. The breakfast is finished and the rest of my family are now ready to explore. So, swapping trail shoes for wellies, it’s back into the elements. Luckily, the sun has come out, and we enjoy a pleasant walk up the nearest tor to the highest working church in England.
The tiny Church of St Michael de Rupe sits on the rocky outcrop like something from a gothic horror film. My children run around pretending it’s the charms classroom at Hogwarts.
By the time we make it back from the hill – which was a little further than anticipated – we’re all exhausted and happy to flop down in front of a film as the winter sun sets outside.
The next morning, I decide to run an easier route along an old disused railway line. It’s now a cycle path, so I shouldn’t get lost. However, once I get going, I find myself disappointed to be running along a straight tarmac path. The wide hills beckon me on either side, and I suddenly feel trapped on the concrete. Even though this is what I usually run on at home, I’m missing yesterday’s squelchy mud and the buzz of slipping and sliding as I run; of traversing the open countryside. This path feels far too tame. So, at the first opportunity, I find a stile and hit the trails again. Although I end up having to retreat out of a field in the face of some frisky cows, and crossing a stream up to my knees in icy water, it’s much more fun.
Dartmoor is not the place for running along tarmac pathways. It’s a place to experience the full gamut of wild running. And if it’s raining? Even better.
The cottage in Dartmoor was booked through Classic Cottages – the UK’s leading independent cottage holiday company and specialist in the south-west. For more information and to book one of Classic Cottages’ coastal and country holiday discoveries, call 01326 555 555 or visit www.classic.co.uk.
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