The Storyteller: Tales from the great Grimpen Mire

Fox Tor Mire, just south of the central Dartmoor village (locals prefer village to town) of Princetown, was made famous, when Conan Doyle renamed it The Great Grimpen Mire, in his classic Sherlock Holmes novel, The Hound of the Baskervilles.

The Hound in the title had made its home there, so not only did wary travellers have to contend with extremely boggy conditions, they also had to keep an eye out for the fearsome beast. In reality, these days, it isn’t quite so treacherous, as I found out recently when I made a couple of visits there, for Letterboxing purposes...but you do have to beware inquisitive cows...

I’ve visited many times, over the years, and a useful place to park is on a flat patch of ground opposite the entrance to Peat Cot. This is a secluded little hamlet, with farm cottages, and its own chapel, in a very picturesque setting. From here I followed a well-maintained track, that heads out of Princetown towards Nuns Cross Farm and beyond. I went as far as the farm, where I was after some Letterboxes on the hill above.

In recent years, this abandoned farm, that is often used for residential, adventure training sessions, is also being hired out for ghost hunting events. Stuck out in the wilderness, with just the very basic of amenities, this would seem an ideal place, if you wanted to commune with nature, but I wasn’t sure if it had much of a haunted reputation...so I did a little bit of research...

It is said that the farm, and the surrounding land, was once owned, and worked by one, John Hooper, and his wife, in the 1870s. They lived in the desolate farmhouse, and just about managed to scrape a living. Until, one night, John’s wife went out to make her usual, final checks on their cattle, before heading to bed, but never returned. No sign was ever seen of her again, alive at least, despite extensive searches. That area is riddled with old mine workings, so is it possible she could have accidentally fallen down a mine shaft, or been murdered, and her body dumped down one? Whatever her fate, the ghost of a woman has often been seen, out on the moorland surrounding the farm, whilst the sound of footsteps has been heard in the kitchen of the farmhouse...

On this occasion, my walk took me through some other mine workings, known as gerts. They are wider than a gully, and more open plan, so to speak. These were in the vicinity of the Devonport Leat, overlooking Burrator Reservoir, and included the one at Crazywell Pool, which I mentioned in my recent article about Midsummer folklore, and Cramber Pool, before I headed back to my car, via South Hessary Tor. It was here that cows crop up in my story, for, as I reached it, a herd of them was standing around my parking spot. At first, I thought this was very cute, so I took a photo. Then, looking more closely, I found my driver’s side wing mirror had been pushed in...this wasn’t how I had left it! Walking around the car, I found the passenger side mirror hanging off! The glass itself was covered in cow spit...I think they must have licked it to death! Suffice to say, I wasn’t best pleased that it took nearly a week to receive the new parts from France. I drive a Citroën Berlingo...who knew the driver’s side mirror is manual, whilst the passenger side is electric? I’ve driven the thing since 2012!

Once I was back on the road, I headed back to the moors, to continue my planned walk, in the Fox Tor area. I wasn’t going to let the cow’s antics put me off, although I did park in a secluded quarry area, and made sure I pushed in the mirrors, this time...

This second route, took me close to the cottages, and ruined remains, of Whiteworks, another old tin mining area, riddled with fenced off mine shafts, in search of a Sheep Creep, a hole in the stone walls, allowing sheep to have easy access from one field to another. I was on the trail of a Letterbox, which, sadly, proved a bit too elusive for me, on this occasion, but I had to give it a go, before turning my attention to others, on the other side of the mire...

I was almost tempted to go in search of the path that is marked on the Ordinance Survey map, that supposedly gives you the safest passage across the most notorious bog on Dartmoor. I have ventured across parts of it, and almost got my feet wet, on previous occasions, but, in order to complete the mission, you do have to be prepared to get them fairly wet, so I’m led to believe. I wasn’t brave enough, unfortunately, this time...maybe another time. Instead, I took a safer route around the periphery of the wetter bits, in order to get to Goldsmiths Cross. This cross, along with many others in this particular area, were designed, and erected, in order to mark safer routes, originally for monks crossing between monasteries at Buckland and Tavistock, to their brothers at Buckfastleigh, as well as other travellers, at a time when the mire was a lot more treacherous than it is today. Back then, the unwary did lose their lives in it, and there is a story concerning an escaped convict, from the Princetown prison, who suffered such a fate, and whose ghost has often been seen, still lost, in the bog that claimed his life.

From the cross, I headed up to the outcrops of Little Fox Tor, where more boxes were to be found, before heading into another gert, T Gert, containing tinners‘ huts, and more boxes. The plan was, to then stay on the higher ground, to reach Fox Tor itself, but, as I emerged from the shelter of the gully, the landscape was shrouded in a Dartmoor mist, that was gradually creeping up on me, as I was stamping up my last two boxes. For safety’s sake, I decided, the best course of action was to head back to the car, which, you will be pleased to hear, was untouched, on this occasion, cutting short my planned walk. As I surveyed my surroundings, before turning back, I glimpsed two other features of interest, through the shifting mist.

The first was the remains of Fox Tor Farm, with its surrounding newtake walls, and Mount Misery Cross, high up on the hillside above. This particular homestead was originally built in the 1800s, and lived in for around fifty years by successive occupants, all trying to make a living off the land. Sadly, they all succumbed to the curse of Old Crockern, the fabled guardian of Dartmoor whose mission is to ensure that no one profits from it. He certainly succeeded here, for now it is a long-abandoned ruin. Before it met this fate, it came to the attention of local writer, Eden Phillpotts, who used the romantically remote setting as the backdrop for his novel, The American Prisoner, which features a soldier from the War of Independence, incarcerated in Dartmoor Prison, who escapes, only to come across the beautiful farmer’s daughter from Fox Tor, and falls in love with her. He then has to hide out in the farm in order to continue their relationship. This was written in 1904, then in 1929, it caught the imagination of some American film producers, who turned it into one of the first “talkie” movies...so some do manage to profit from Dartmoor, after all!

Another reason the farm might have been cursed, is that during its construction, some of the blocks from nearby Childes Tomb, the second feature I spotted before the mist swallowed it up, were used as doorsteps...

The tale of Childe the Hunter, is probably one of the saddest that Fox Tor has to offer, for the granite cross, on the granite plinth, marks the spot where the poor chap died. He was out hunting, with his companions, during one particularly snowy Winter, when he got separated, and found himself lost in a white wilderness. Foolishly, he thought that his only chance of survival was to kill and gut his horse, then to climb inside the carcass to keep warm. Sadly, he realised his mistake too late, when rescue was obviously not imminent, so with his last ounce of energy he used the blood from his horse to write his last will and testament in the snow...”whosoever finds my body and gives it a Christian burial, will inherit my lands.” Childe was a wealthy landowner from Plymstock, and his tenants would have dearly loved to keep hold of his land, but they found themselves in a race with monks from Tavistock Abbey, to secure his body...a race which the monks won, by using their guile to build a bridge across the River Tavy, enabling them to get home first, and claim their prize. This bridge has become forever known as Guile Bridge.

On one of my previous visits to the tomb, at twilight, I nearly died of fright, when I discovered a head inside it...it transpired that some joker had transported the head of a mannequin all this way for a wheeze! On subsequent visits, I’ve found it has been removed, but on this particular occasion, having recovered my composure, and after taking some pictures, I continued my way homewards, only to be nearly run into by a cow! Turns out they haven’t got good eyesight in the dark...but enough of cows...