Memories of Devon 2

May 1986 - Dartmoor - Ten Tors!
I went to boarding school in South Wales and loved it. Everything was available for a young man who loved the outdoors, sport, music and drama. They were truly the best years of my life. One of the many adventures that I had during my time there was Ten Tors. For those who don't know Ten Tors is an expedition on Dartmoor that is held every year. Several thousands of young men and women (between 14 and 18) hike various courses, depending on age, across the moor, over two days. During their hike, they have to check in with the armed forces who man many Tors (Hills with granite outcrops) across the moor. Every team has a route, varying from 35 to 55 miles, that visits 10 Tors.
1986 brought the most appalling weather seen for this event in its history to that point. A depression tightened over the moor and created ghastly conditions for people to be as exposed as Dartmoor can be. Very few teams (made up of six individuals) finished, most were washed off the moor by the end of the first day. We did very well and were ahead of target but were advised not to go on as we were approaching the toughest bit of our walk at the height of the storm - it was very good advice, though we were bitterly disappointed. The armed forces got thousands of young people off the moor. The worst injuries were a twisted ankle and a broken arm.
My parents had come down to stay in Devon with the dual purpose of house hunting for their retirement and supporting the team, they were staying at the farm I mentioned in my last post.
When they heard that we had been "crashed out" they swung into action.
My mother headed back to the farm to ask Agnes to open up the cottage for a bunch of hungry, wet, disappointed 17 year olds. My father contacted our Master in charge and at the base camp informed him of the plot! Damp and sullen, we were all thrust into the minibus and driven into the night. I was the only one who knew that it was all going to be fine. The roads got smaller and darker as we thundered through that filthy night. Conversations ended and were not started again as apprehension fell upon the team. Finally, we arrived at the farm and we were all shepherded in.
Things had not been standing still at the farm. Agnes had gone to the butcher's house and informed him that he was to open up as she need some meat. This is at 8 pm on a Saturday! By the time we were all steaming in front of a roaring open fire there was the best stew I have ever tasted being ladled in to bowls for us. Agnes clucked around ensuring that we all had three or four dumplings and plenty of meat. The look on the face of the Master in charge of the trip was one of a man rescued from a dreadful fate. After all, the other alternative was driving 250 miles back to school with tired, cold, wet teenagers in the minibus.
The cottage had been opened and we all slept like logs in the little house where I had spent so many happy summer holidays.
It was in the morning, which incidentally was glorious, that Agnes excelled herself, I'm not sure if I had ever seen so much bacon, sausage, black pudding, eggs, fried bread, mushrooms and tomatoes on one table before. We had regained our spirits and were ready for the journey home.
Agnes, her husband Ernie and her father Mark have long since died and the farm is run by Agnes' grandson from the neighbouring farmhouse. The Farmhouse and cottage are now in different hands but as I drove down the lane, so remote that it has grass growing in the middle. it was clear that they were both inhabited by someone who loves them as much as I did in my childhood. They were newly whitewashed and the garden was full of flowers. There will always be a bit of me left in that living room, with my schoolmates and a bowl of stew born from pure generosity of spirit. A little bit of my heart is still at Madworthy Farm.