On the lonely trail of Bronze Age man

THE Abbot's Way snakes across the heart of Dartmoor, through some of the loneliest land in England. Today it's just another wandering moorland track, half-submerged beneath the bracken, dotted with ancient stone crosses and sheep. But in milder, medieval days it was a well-trodden trade route, a mix of motorway and pilgrim's way, linking the wealthy abbeys of Tavistock and Buckfastleigh, crouched in their valleys on either side of the moor.

We joined it at the moor's edge, where it tumbles down a hollow lane to cross a stream by "clapper" bridge - a local speciality: slabs of unhewn granite laid over boulders in the water. On the far side it climbed past a row of ancient beeches, their roots like great organic buttresses, cloaked in a tangle of moss, perhaps the overgrown relic of an old hedge or windbreak, one of the many remnants of settlement on the fringe of the moor. This is a land from which people have retreated, leaving only fragments of their presence over several thousands of years.

The Way led out on to open ground, a wide swathe of trampled track between tussocks and bracken. Shreds of cloud scudded across a watery sun, and a surprisingly chill wind drilled its way through my clothes. The prospect of it whipping across the open heights before us made the moor seem suddenly daunting. But there was no going back now: a stile led over a final stone wall, bearing the cryptic notice "Exit to Moor". (We wondered what exactly we were exiting from, and whether there would be a sign at the other end: "Entrance to World".)

Beyond lay a fair imitation of wilderness. Vast open acres of bracken and heather, with just the odd hardy holly or thorn to break the skyline. It's not as natural as it looks, though. The combination of the smothering bracken and the nibbling teeth of grazing livestock means that few other trees stand a chance. Without this alliance, much of the moor would slowly sprout forest.

We followed the Abbots' footsteps up a long curve of hill, like an inverted saucer, reaching the crest in time for two tiny miracles: the wind dropped and the sun sliced through the cloud. It felt like we were standing on the rim of the world. Below, the tawny slopes of Gripper's Hill slid away down to the lake behind the Avon Dam. Mist rose from its surface in wisps, like steam from a cauldron. A herd of shaggy cattle grazed on the shore, their hides mimicking the the soft brown of the bracken (flat and dull, but with an amber sheen where it caught the sun).

On the far side rose the slump of Quickbeam Hill, a perfect name for such a day of fleeting sunshine. Across its slopes were a scattering of hut circles, relics of a warmer time, when the Beaker Folk and their Bronze Age descendants spread out on to the moor. I tried to work out what it must have looked like then, when the cowled figures of the medieval monks were still thousands of years into the future. More trees, no doubt, less bracken. What else? Wolves, bears, maybe? And what did they do for kicks? Did they drink, dance, have parties? Or was it all hard toil and occasional ceremony, intricate ritual among tumuli and stone circles, astro-calendars painstakingly laid out to mirror constellations?

An abrupt "Morning to you", jolted me back to the present, in the form of three intimidatingly well-equipped fell walkers, all wrapped up in Gore-Tex and an unmistakable air of superiority. I immediately felt like an impostor, in my ex-Army trousers, woollen waistcoat and flying jacket. "You must be mad," said the lead Gore-Texan, just to put me at my ease, "out in the middle of the moor like that, making notes."

At the foot of the hill we splashed over Brockhill Stream, and wended through the shagpile cattle. They were a mixture of cows and bullocks, including one or two who looked on the verge of full bull-ness. They nosed forward to peer at us, looking curious, almost accusing; then veered off at the last minute, setting up ripples of minor commotion as they backed into each other. We strode on, pretending more or less successfully not to be afraid.

The path wound up the valley, following the stream which feeds the reservoir, through "Bishop's Meads" - a strangely municipal name for such a wild place. On either side rose the bracken-brown slopes, strewn with hut circles. "All the colours seem soft," said my sister, "like a Raymond Briggs cartoon."

At the head of the valley stood an old stone cross, its arms worn away by a thousand years' weathering, so that it looked more like the pagan standing stones which it was built to supplant. This was Huntingdon Cross, named after one of the lost abbots. We left the Way here and headed north, clambering up among the rocks on the banks of the Western Wella Brook. Appropriately enough, it was welling over, rushing and splashing over the boulders down to the Avon.

Scattered across the top of the hill were relics of the moor's industrial past. Shallow smelter pits gouged out of the earth, among fragments of buildings whose stone walls were slowly subsiding into the heather. This was a mine, one of many that once brought a kind of prosperity to the area. Tin was discovered here around 1100, and Cornish miners brought in to provide the expertise.

Under their guidance, the locals learnt to dig the deposits out of the streams, crush the ore with water wheels, and wash out impurities in the fierce flow of a specially-narrowed stream. An abnormally straight and narrow stretch of the Wella just by the mine suggested that it had indeed been used for this purpose. But in places it was overflowing, finding new courses down through the ruins. The Dartmoor tin industry has been dead for a hundred years, and this stream which it once tamed was now helping the slow erosion of its remains.

Beyond the ruins we found a track heading our way - east - back over the high moor. A chill breeze picked up, clouds thickened and overwhelmed the thin sunlight. I felt underdressed, slightly foolish: even in April the wind was cutting through the air like a razor, slashing at my ears, stabbing its way through every seam. Suddenly the moor felt featureless, boring; a dull place, hard work.

With some relief we slid out of the wind's grasp down the lea of a long hill, across rough pasture to a gate and a lane. In a driveway of a cottage a man was tinkering with his car. If we got a move on, we could reach the pub in time for lunch. Exit from Moor, Entrance to World. !

Beginning a new series on walking in Britain, Martin Wright sets off on foot

over Dartmoor's ancient and remote Abbot's Way, and finds the going tough

We joined it at the moor's edge, where it tumbles down a hollow lane to cross a stream by "clapper" bridge - a local speciality: slabs of unhewn granite laid over boulders in the water. On the far side it climbed past a row of ancient beeches, their roots like great organic buttresses, cloaked in a tangle of moss, perhaps the overgrown relic of an old hedge or windbreak, one of the many remnants of settlement on the fringe of the moor. This is a land from which people have retreated, leaving only fragments of their presence over several thousands of years.

The Way led out on to open ground, a wide swathe of trampled track between tussocks and bracken. Shreds of cloud scudded across a watery sun, and a surprisingly chill wind drilled its way through my clothes. The prospect of it whipping across the open heights before us made the moor seem suddenly daunting. But there was no going back now: a stile led over a final stone wall, bearing the cryptic notice "Exit to Moor". (We wondered what exactly we were exiting from, and whether there would be a sign at the other end: "Entrance to World".)

Beyond lay a fair imitation of wilderness. Vast open acres of bracken and heather, with just the odd hardy holly or thorn to break the skyline. It's not as natural as it looks, though. The combination of the smothering bracken and the nibbling teeth of grazing livestock means that few other trees stand a chance. Without this alliance, much of the moor would slowly sprout forest.

We followed the Abbots' footsteps up a long curve of hill, like an inverted saucer, reaching the crest in time for two tiny miracles: the wind dropped and the sun sliced through the cloud. It felt like we were standing on the rim of the world. Below, the tawny slopes of Gripper's Hill slid away down to the lake behind the Avon Dam. Mist rose from its surface in wisps, like steam from a cauldron. A herd of shaggy cattle grazed on the shore, their hides mimicking the the soft brown of the bracken (flat and dull, but with an amber sheen where it caught the sun).

On the far side rose the slump of Quickbeam Hill, a perfect name for such a day of fleeting sunshine. Across its slopes were a scattering of hut circles, relics of a warmer time, when the Beaker Folk and their Bronze Age descendants spread out on to the moor. I tried to work out what it must have looked like then, when the cowled figures of the medieval monks were still thousands of years into the future. More trees, no doubt, less bracken. What else? Wolves, bears, maybe? And what did they do for kicks? Did they drink, dance, have parties? Or was it all hard toil and occasional ceremony, intricate ritual among tumuli and stone circles, astro-calendars painstakingly laid out to mirror constellations?

An abrupt "Morning to you", jolted me back to the present, in the form of three intimidatingly well-equipped fell walkers, all wrapped up in Gore-Tex and an unmistakable air of superiority. I immediately felt like an impostor, in my ex-Army trousers, woollen waistcoat and flying jacket. "You must be mad," said the lead Gore-Texan, just to put me at my ease, "out in the middle of the moor like that, making notes."

At the foot of the hill we splashed over Brockhill Stream, and wended through the shagpile cattle. They were a mixture of cows and bullocks, including one or two who looked on the verge of full bull-ness. They nosed forward to peer at us, looking curious, almost accusing; then veered off at the last minute, setting up ripples of minor commotion as they backed into each other. We strode on, pretending more or less successfully not to be afraid.

The path wound up the valley, following the stream which feeds the reservoir, through "Bishop's Meads" - a strangely municipal name for such a wild place. On either side rose the bracken-brown slopes, strewn with hut circles. "All the colours seem soft," said my sister, "like a Raymond Briggs cartoon."

At the head of the valley stood an old stone cross, its arms worn away by a thousand years' weathering, so that it looked more like the pagan standing stones which it was built to supplant. This was Huntingdon Cross, named after one of the lost abbots. We left the Way here and headed north, clambering up among the rocks on the banks of the Western Wella Brook. Appropriately enough, it was welling over, rushing and splashing over the boulders down to the Avon.

Scattered across the top of the hill were relics of the moor's industrial past. Shallow smelter pits gouged out of the earth, among fragments of buildings whose stone walls were slowly subsiding into the heather. This was a mine, one of many that once brought a kind of prosperity to the area. Tin was discovered here around 1100, and Cornish miners brought in to provide the expertise.

Under their guidance, the locals learnt to dig the deposits out of the streams, crush the ore with water wheels, and wash out impurities in the fierce flow of a specially-narrowed stream. An abnormally straight and narrow stretch of the Wella just by the mine suggested that it had indeed been used for this purpose. But in places it was overflowing, finding new courses down through the ruins. The Dartmoor tin industry has been dead for a hundred years, and this stream which it once tamed was now helping the slow erosion of its remains.

Beyond the ruins we found a track heading our way - east - back over the high moor. A chill breeze picked up, clouds thickened and overwhelmed the thin sunlight. I felt underdressed, slightly foolish: even in April the wind was cutting through the air like a razor, slashing at my ears, stabbing its way through every seam. Suddenly the moor felt featureless, boring; a dull place, hard work.

With some relief we slid out of the wind's grasp down the lea of a long hill, across rough pasture to a gate and a lane. In a driveway of a cottage a man was tinkering with his car. If we got a move on, we could reach the pub in time for lunch. Exit from Moor, Entrance to World. !

This Abbot's Way walk started at Cross Furzes and ended at Lud Gate: by car, leave the A38 at Buckfastleigh; follow the signs towards Holne and Scorriton. Ordnance Survey Map No 202 (in the 1:50,000 series) covers all the ground. For all moor walks, even in summer, take clothes that keep out the wind and rain, wear stout shoes, boots or wellingtons. A compass is useful, particularly if you're wandering off the path - it's all too easy to lose yourself in the mist or low cloud. The Church House Inn at Holne does superb lunches. You can also stay there.