The Witch Who Took Up Downhill Skiing
There was one subject on which we were unanimous. No arguments whatsoever on this one. From the moment Lee shared a black and white beauty he’d found in these pages, the deal was done. Whatever else we came here to take pictures of, the little bent tree in the wilderness was going to be one of them. At least assuming we could actually find it, that was. All we were certain about was that it was on Dartmoor, and that none of us had seen it on our travels. And although there are a number of very compelling images of it on this platform, none of you was very forthcoming about how to find it. A well guarded secret. And with nine hundred and fifty-four square kilometres of national park to explore, simply happening across it was about as likely as picking the correct numbers for the National Lottery. We needed somebody to tell us where it was. But it didn’t stop us digging. Dave managed to find an article that convinced us he’d narrowed it down to a few sprawling hectares.
It so happened that the author of Lee’s discovery was one of my regular contacts, so I messaged her and asked if she remembered where it was. But as an overseas visitor who’d been chauffeured around the moors for a couple of days, she had no idea. Perhaps she had been sworn to silence. I suspected I knew who’d shown it to her, so I asked him next. “Ah yes you won’t find that on your own. I’ll come along and show you where it is.” Nick’s wealth of Dartmoor inside intelligence seemed to be matched only by his stellar photographic talents and his generosity of spirit. We arranged to meet up with him during our visit, and he sent me details of where I’d need to park. I recognised the screenshot from Google Maps straight away. It seemed Dave’s hunch wasn’t too far from the mark.
In the event, although Nick was able to join us earlier in the day to share another of his secret locations (more of that in another tale), he had to dash off before the afternoon took hold. A good job I’d also arranged to meet another local photographer in the shape of Carl, who spent the day with us traipsing around the moors. It turned out that Carl had also asked Nick for the keys to the kingdom, and having been granted the freedom of the moors, he’d already visited the tree once before. He was keen to return to the scene for another mission. And so after lunch, we headed off towards what would be the final location of the day.
Even though we now knew roughly where the tree was, it was a good job we had a guide. Because standing here at the edge of the car park, it might have well as been on Exmoor for all we could see. Stick a pin in the huge rambling rock strewn green landscape and hope for the best. It was far away enough to deter visitors, its anonymous location protected by an enchantment of bogs and streams in a terrain where only welly boots would take the stubborn few. With a good set of binoculars we might have been able to see it from the top of the rise beyond the car park, but even as we approached the crag upon which the dwarfish hawthorn tree sat, it wasn’t entirely obvious as to exactly where it was. But then we spotted it, clinging to the edge of an expanse of granite tor, tiny and twisting towards us, changing shape from every angle. I hadn’t expected it to be quite so small. “Three ways to shoot it,” Nick had said to me conspiratorially. I hoped to find a fourth.
And here is (maybe) that fourth point of view, the small hunched shape leaning forward, her long locks flowing behind her as she careers down the slope. “I don’t know whether it’s a witch or a skier,” wrote one of my faithful correspondents when I shared this first image on another platform. “Maybe it’s both,” I replied. I don’t know anything about skiing, but “knees bent, lean forward and brace for impact” seem to fit the bill here.
I never did discover the three ways - I found two others that I liked a lot, and three more that I wasn’t so keen on. Excuse me if I’ve been a bit vague about exactly where it is - but seeing as I was entrusted with treasured information and I’m hoping my friends across the river are going to let me in on the inside track again next time I visit, well you know how it is - got to keep the Cornwall and Devon entente going you know. What a beauty she is though, even if finding her was like searching for a very small needle in a city made of haystacks. With such outlandish beauty, she deserves that veil of anonymity.
The Witch Who Took Up Downhill Skiing
There was one subject on which we were unanimous. No arguments whatsoever on this one. From the moment Lee shared a black and white beauty he’d found in these pages, the deal was done. Whatever else we came here to take pictures of, the little bent tree in the wilderness was going to be one of them. At least assuming we could actually find it, that was. All we were certain about was that it was on Dartmoor, and that none of us had seen it on our travels. And although there are a number of very compelling images of it on this platform, none of you was very forthcoming about how to find it. A well guarded secret. And with nine hundred and fifty-four square kilometres of national park to explore, simply happening across it was about as likely as picking the correct numbers for the National Lottery. We needed somebody to tell us where it was. But it didn’t stop us digging. Dave managed to find an article that convinced us he’d narrowed it down to a few sprawling hectares.
It so happened that the author of Lee’s discovery was one of my regular contacts, so I messaged her and asked if she remembered where it was. But as an overseas visitor who’d been chauffeured around the moors for a couple of days, she had no idea. Perhaps she had been sworn to silence. I suspected I knew who’d shown it to her, so I asked him next. “Ah yes you won’t find that on your own. I’ll come along and show you where it is.” Nick’s wealth of Dartmoor inside intelligence seemed to be matched only by his stellar photographic talents and his generosity of spirit. We arranged to meet up with him during our visit, and he sent me details of where I’d need to park. I recognised the screenshot from Google Maps straight away. It seemed Dave’s hunch wasn’t too far from the mark.
In the event, although Nick was able to join us earlier in the day to share another of his secret locations (more of that in another tale), he had to dash off before the afternoon took hold. A good job I’d also arranged to meet another local photographer in the shape of Carl, who spent the day with us traipsing around the moors. It turned out that Carl had also asked Nick for the keys to the kingdom, and having been granted the freedom of the moors, he’d already visited the tree once before. He was keen to return to the scene for another mission. And so after lunch, we headed off towards what would be the final location of the day.
Even though we now knew roughly where the tree was, it was a good job we had a guide. Because standing here at the edge of the car park, it might have well as been on Exmoor for all we could see. Stick a pin in the huge rambling rock strewn green landscape and hope for the best. It was far away enough to deter visitors, its anonymous location protected by an enchantment of bogs and streams in a terrain where only welly boots would take the stubborn few. With a good set of binoculars we might have been able to see it from the top of the rise beyond the car park, but even as we approached the crag upon which the dwarfish hawthorn tree sat, it wasn’t entirely obvious as to exactly where it was. But then we spotted it, clinging to the edge of an expanse of granite tor, tiny and twisting towards us, changing shape from every angle. I hadn’t expected it to be quite so small. “Three ways to shoot it,” Nick had said to me conspiratorially. I hoped to find a fourth.
And here is (maybe) that fourth point of view, the small hunched shape leaning forward, her long locks flowing behind her as she careers down the slope. “I don’t know whether it’s a witch or a skier,” wrote one of my faithful correspondents when I shared this first image on another platform. “Maybe it’s both,” I replied. I don’t know anything about skiing, but “knees bent, lean forward and brace for impact” seem to fit the bill here.
I never did discover the three ways - I found two others that I liked a lot, and three more that I wasn’t so keen on. Excuse me if I’ve been a bit vague about exactly where it is - but seeing as I was entrusted with treasured information and I’m hoping my friends across the river are going to let me in on the inside track again next time I visit, well you know how it is - got to keep the Cornwall and Devon entente going you know. What a beauty she is though, even if finding her was like searching for a very small needle in a city made of haystacks. With such outlandish beauty, she deserves that veil of anonymity.