You! Yes, You! Stop That!From Dartmoor to Westminster, Ed wants to roam. Despite the prison it's well known for, Dartmoor is one of the areas of England with the best public access rights. But all is not well on the moors...
It bothers me that my freedom to responsibly roam the open country of England, restricted as it already is, faces further threat from some landowners who simply don’t want me walking the hills, moors, woods and heathland. And if I want to wild camp, even this pathetic level of access drastically reduces. I’m only legally allowed to do this on land in the Dartmoor National Park – and that’s just 0.2% of the land in England.
Rich local landowners have taken the Dartmoor National Park to the highest court in the land to attempt to overthrow The Dartmoor Commons Act 1985, which granted the public right of access on foot and horseback for open-air recreation.
They don’t want me swimming in the rivers, reservoirs or along stretches of coast, either. Our country, which proudly values its countryside as a big part of its identity, only allows its citizens access to 8% of that countryside.
Obviously, I don’t agree with these restrictions, so, along with long-time friend Shaggy, we’re off for an Edventure in these contentious areas, while it’s still allowed. A legal battle is under way that could be the start of seeing everyone banned from these areas for good.
Shaggy is the ideal partner in crime for this trip. I’ve known him for years. He’s travelled the world racing mountain bikes, sleeping in ditches, and getting frostbite. He is a good guy to go with. And he can read a map.
Middle-aged men on bicycles. The latest scourge of the countryside.
Often Told Off
In a past life, I was a mountain biker. My social life revolved around rides, and I earned a living as a skills coach and guide. While pedalling in the woods or hills, I often got told off by people for riding on footpaths. It had always seemed a bit silly that bikes couldn’t go on footpaths and were restricted to following bridleways. What the hell do bikes have in common with horses, and how come Scotland has different rules? There you can cycle on any path.
Because I was a professional mountain biker, I tried to be an ambassador and stay polite when the tutting or shouting started. One of the reasons I was attracted to mountain biking was it gave me the chance to go outside, away from being told what to do. I was a middle-aged man riding a bicycle, I wasn’t breaking into people’s houses and giving them cancer. Though I made lots of friends through riding bikes, eventually I grew less patient and spoke my mind. In common with arguing with online trolls, these episodes can start to affect you. In the end the negotiation and/or arguments became one of the reasons I quit riding mountain bikes. It seems someone is always telling someone else what they can or cannot do, but not today.
Pathetic Access
We park in Princetown – the centre of the Dartmoor National Park. The tranquil scene here doesn’t feel like the prelude to some lawbreaking.
It’s usually grim with mist and the infamous prison as a looming presence. Today is different. It’s sunny and the Mountain Rescue are having a bit of a jamboree, even the old police station has turned into a cafe, where we eat posh fishcakes and chips. I’m back on my mountain bike and reminded that a pushbike loaded with minimal camping gear and snacks is a freedom machine. Winching our way up onto the moor in golden hour has the right balance of purpose and chill. Ancient tracks transport us past wild ponies, from the everyday to a world of medieval farm settlements and even older prehistoric standing stones.
Is this a bridleway? If not, that is definitely not one of us pictured.
In the last light of a beautifully soul-replenishing first day, Shaggy and I photo the shit out of each other, then leave the bridleway we rode in on and head down a footpath. It soon becomes unrideable, with a mix of boggy, tussocky ground. Darkness falls, head torches click on, and we begin to haul our loaded bikes, trying to locate a row of standing stones where we plan to set up camp.
We find the Bronze Age settlement. It was once a ‘pound’, a walled boundary surrounding huts. It was the first bit of clear, flat ground that we could put tents on: thanks ancestors of pre-history!
We’re in part of the longest ancient stone row on Dartmoor and some say the world. Over 1000 stones put here for reasons unknown, but put here on purpose. Somebody staked a claim, took a stand. Maybe they were worshipping their gods, hoping for luck with crops and animals. Whatever it was, I like knowing that somebody else was here making something happen.
What was the stone circle’s purpose? Experts don’t have a clue.
The Problem
We’re bedding down on land owned by Alexander Darwall, a hedge fund manager. Last year he took Dartmoor National Park to the High Court and secured a ban on wild camping on his land. This judgement was overturned by the Court of Appeal, but deep pockets allow a war of attrition, and the case now sits with the Supreme Court. His claim is that wild camping poses a threat to the ecology of the moor and his farming activities through littering, wildfires, ground erosion and boundary damage. The counter arguments are strong, and you can read all about it via the Right to Roam Campaign, the Dartmoor Preservation Society, and many other sources. You can guess which side of the barbed wire fence I sit on.
We’re wild camping – carrying everything with us. Wild camping enthusiasts stay away from people’s houses, and don’t disturb crops or livestock. Wild camping enthusiasts aim to leave no trace of their visit, taking away their litter and digging a hole to bury poo. Wild camping enthusiasts are not the kind of people who pump 140 million litres of waste into Windermere.
By cutting people off from the countryside, they are breaking the bonds the populace has with nature. Those who still want to spend time in it are corralled onto well-worn itineraries, packing the access routes on busy weekends. This leads to erosion, and occasional litter, allowing the landowners an opportunity to say, ‘We told you… These people cannot be trusted.’ Surely more access equals less stress on the land.
We like lichen. We love wildlife.
The Power of Lichen
As a youngster, Shaggy completed the Ten Tors Challenge. Over two days, teams of teenagers are tasked with visiting ten tors (rocky outcrops) on Dartmoor. They must be self-sufficient, which means carrying the camping gear and food they need to cover 35 to 55 miles. Self-sufficiency is the foundation that builds a sense of accomplishment that can last a lifetime. For Shaggy, it was a key experience that led him to live an adventurous life.
Day two, and we set off on foot to find the stone row. We spot more pound and mine remains, then stones standing proud of the ground. We see a pattern stretching over the hillside, rising above bogs. I note that the row lies on a pretty much north-south alignment. Continuing, we find a stone circle. The intention of the builders may be lost in time, but it doesn’t matter, I’ve found a place of peace. I feel like I belong. We talk about how this would be a great spot to camp, inside the circle. Imagine the dreams! I fantasise about returning here the night that the Supreme Court’s verdict on wild camping is announced. In victory or defeat, the case for a Right to Roam Act of Parliament will gain momentum. This stone circle, in a way itself lost on Dartmoor, with its mystery and peacefulness, will be a place to make a stand and generate motivation.
People have lived out here for thousands of years. Now one person wants to restrict the public’s access.
Nature regenerates, that’s the big thing we take away from our trip here. This lost place, built who knows when and for what, slowly erodes, the stones turning to soil by the power of lichens and rain, sinking into the peat in a never-ending cycle. Nature takes over in the end. People have denuded this ecosystem through agriculture. Patterns of weather and the wider climate have shifted. Whatever the causes and effects, in the end it all regenerates. Get rid of the sheep and the scrub will colonise, forest will return. This should give us hope. We are part of this nature. We will grow as a part of it or be eaten up by it and still be a part of it as bits of its biological building blocks.
I notice that the row hasn’t really come to an end here in the circle. Up ahead on the horizon we see stones. Over there on the next high point, directly south, is another collection of them. Life goes on.
Time runs out for us here in this beautiful place. It’s time to leave now. There’s a journey to complete, then a van to get back to and homes to return to. Words to write. A protest to go to.
The Protest
The last time I was at a protest was in 1989 and mounted police charged the crowd wielding batons. Margaret Thatcher’s government was proposing the student loan system (that we now have) to replace the grants system for going to university. Being in the centre of the gathering was a shocking and exciting experience, like being thrust into that painting of the Charge of the Light Brigade. Later, as a police helicopter flew overhead I sang, ‘I didn’t know that pigs could fly, I thought they trotted’. A copper grabbed me, looked menacingly into my eyes and shoved me back into the crowd.
35 years later and I’m back. This time there are no police. The protestors are a mixed bunch of Morris dancers, outdoorsy folk, poets, activists, and a couple of supportive MPs. In my smart wool overshirt, new selvedge jeans and brogues, I look like a police infiltrator.
We stand with our banners outside the Supreme Court in Westminster, the highest court in the land. Inside, the final judgement is being made to decide whether wild camping is to continue to be allowed on Dartmoor without having to seek the express permission of a landowner.
Armed protesters kicking off.
This event may sound trivial in light of news-filling world events, but it stands pivotal in the history of access that British people have to the lands of England and Wales. Events leading up to this point include the Norman conquest, the enclosure of land for agriculture, the foundation of our National Parks and our collective itch to reconnect with nature in our post-Covid world. HebTroCo’s Don’t Be A Dick scarf is my banner. It crosses my mind that the BBC might edit me out because of the word dick, but funnily they don’t seem to notice and my message will appear on the local news and in a photo on the BBC website. It feels good to be physically here doing my bit.
A man sweeping the street asks what the demonstration is about. I explain to him that being able to wild camp in this country was essentially in the balance. He said he’d lived here 20 years and had been shocked when he found out we didn’t have the right to roam, like they do in Poland. He had expected Britain to be a country with greater freedoms.
Steady Flow
Greater freedoms… I love the thrill of an outdoor swim. The same marketing hype machine that labelled off-road cycling ‘mountain biking’ calls what I like to do ‘wild swimming’.
Last year, ‘No Swimming’ signs went up along 17km of the River Dart, including a popular spot that has been used by families for generations, called Deeper Marsh. ‘No Camping’ signs went up too. This beauty spot is part of the Spitchwick Estate and the reason for the attempted ban is listed as potential damage to the riverbank and aquatic ecology. Shaggy and I roll up on our bikes (surprisingly, the estate forgot to add ‘No Cycling’ signs). It’s an idyllic spot with easy entry to the water from grass to large slabs of rock that turn to gravel then drop away. The water looks black here and the rope swings from the forested cliff on the far side suggest the water is very deep. It is utterly beautiful and an obvious place to take a dip. I slip into the water and swim with the current. I don’t want to stop and feel like I could zoom all the way out of Dartmoor on the steady flow until I reach the sea. No time for this now though. We have miles still to cover on our bikes to get back to the van and we are tired men. It’s definitely a place I will return to.
I once attended a charity conservation event for Curlew Action. Lord Montagu of Beaulieu was the host and he explained how keeping people off parts of his land was a good thing. This statement, which outraged me, claimed that he knew best. He cast himself into the role of custodian of the land, thanks to aristocratic principle. He was a self-appointed god here. His interests and wealth originate from a distant relative – a knight of William the Conqueror, who awarded Drogo de Montagu a chunk of Northamptonshire for his loyalty. Whoever, a thousand years in the past, was using this common land to scratch their survival before the Norman conquest, was out. That’s how land ownership works. All that land that is someone’s, used to be everyone’s. Maybe the current Lord Montagu intimately knows the place and what it needs to thrive. The trouble is that islands aren’t separate from what surrounds them. Air and water cannot be held, controlled in one place, be subject to one master. And so it is with people.
Hairy Hands
Beware the Hairy Hands. On Bother adventures this year I have sustained a rotator cuff injury on a cycling trip and crashed a motorcycle on a German autobahn. This time I was going to face danger from a different dimension. Folklore has it that while navigating the rollercoaster of a road between Princetown and Postbridge, a wild part of Dartmoor, people have had their steering wheels or handlebars grabbed by a pair of disembodied hairy hands, violently forcing them off the carriageway. People have died, they say. It’s no joke and is certainly nothing to do with cider.
I wonder if the Hairy Hands are just an easy thing to blame, a bit like saying every person camping leaves gates open, drops litter and burns the ground with disposable barbecues. Banning people from doing things doesn’t educate them about the right way to do things. Banning people infantilises them. With no opportunity to learn, no experiences to enjoy except those paid for, we are a step closer to becoming drooling consumer drones. It’s time to stand up, walk off, pitch up, and stop being pushed about.
Ed, communing with a Neolithic stone circle before the Supreme Court ruling.
What was the outcome of the ruling? Find out here.
Words: Ed Oxley Photos: Ed Oxley, Shaggy
First published in Issue 3 of Bother Magazine, December 2024.
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