Guardians of the Forest
We were almost five years late. What on earth had we been doing in the time since Lee was taken out by a serious case of man flu just before we were due to head off to Dartmoor? A couple of weeks earlier, I’d taken two days leave and we’d gone on a scouting mission to Foggintor and Great Staple Tor. At Windy Post, a lone tog had asked us whether we were Canon men or Nikon men, as if there was some kind of badge we should be wearing that defined us. We scratched our heads. In Lee’s case he was a Canon/Nikon/Sony/David Hasselhof/Fujifilm/Rolleiflex/Kodak Instamatic/Box Brownie/Canon again/Sony again/Nikon again man. We just nodded, smiled and agreed that Windy Post wasn't working today. A few days later Lee was in bed, clinging grimly onto life with the mysterious disease known as “A Stinking Cold,” and groaning that a photography expedition would be too much for him. “Go on without me,” his whine came over pitifully on the Whatsapp. “I’ll only hold you back.” It was all too pathetic - we’d wait until he was well again. Reluctantly I contacted an understanding host, said we’d be back, and life moved on.
Somewhere towards the end of last year, it was agreed that another trip was due. Lee had disposed of all of the above camera systems (probably), and was now in possession of two exotic Leicas. Whether they’d bear fruit, he still wasn’t sure. By now the three happy clackers had fallen into an easy rhythm of heading off for a few days every second February. In 2018 we christened the new tradition with a winter wonderland at Glencoe, while in 2020 and 2022 we managed to time our respective visits to Snowdonia (or Eryri as my sister now insists we call it) and Somerset (or Somerset as we insist we call it) with monstrous storms. And while another dose of snowfall would be more than welcome, we really didn’t need any more tempests. We were done with cowering in our digs watching airborne trampolines zooming past the windows and waiting for the wind to drop below seventy miles per hour. For the bleak uplands of West Devon, rain and mist would be ideal.
This time, in recompense for his earlier failure to keep away from the microbes, Lee booked the accommodation - and a mighty fine billet he found us too. Dave and I immediately agreed that from now on, Lee was appointed Director of Housing. Not only had our host left enough tea bags to last a week, but we also found three freshly baked scones waiting for us on arrival. Next to them stood three pots of jam, and it didn’t take long to locate the clotted cream in the fridge either. What a lovely Westcountry welcome. I decided not to mention the fact I live five minutes walk from the place where they make the clotted cream - it might have seemed ungrateful. And then there was the underfloor heating. Lee had excelled himself. We’d overlook the fact that being on a working farm, it might be quite busy at 5am, but then again there was a plan to get up early on the first morning. And with fog and mist expected at the crack of dawn, it was a rare opportunity to go to the woods. Those woods.
Now I know you know. And you know that I know you know. There’s probably little point in maintaining a veil of pretence as to the exact location, but I’m going to beg your indulgence on this one. Yes of course it’s that famous woodland - the one we don’t talk about for fear of inviting massed hordes into its depths. Our new friend Carl told us a film party had recently asked permission to come here with a large smoke machine. At least there were only four of us creeping around benignly at half past eight in the morning, sheltering from the persistent drizzle that followed us wherever we went. Ok so the gloom wasn’t quite as thick as it might have been, but as things went, the gods appeared to be with us as we searched for the beasts who guard the forest. Here, I found two reptilian forms, swathed in deep green coats of moss and ferns, making their way across the ancient boulders. The one on the left looked spent, but any attempts to overcome him would surely be repelled by a rather fierce looking companion.
Five years on and we’d timed this visit well. No storms, no snow, just an agreeable blanket of misty morning doom. For a couple of hours we moved around the edges of the wood, entranced and enchanted by its curious inhabitants, nursing cups of coffee drawn from thermos flasks. Just now and then a composition might unravel from the chaos, although more often confusion ruled amongst the beasts. Beasts that skulked and plotted in the shadows as we shook the raindrops from our packs and wiped our cameras with whatever passed for towels. All too soon our time was up - the next rendezvous lay waiting somewhere nearby. We packed our gear away and left the guardians to their secrets. I could almost feel them watching our backs as we retreated into the fog once more.
Guardians of the Forest
We were almost five years late. What on earth had we been doing in the time since Lee was taken out by a serious case of man flu just before we were due to head off to Dartmoor? A couple of weeks earlier, I’d taken two days leave and we’d gone on a scouting mission to Foggintor and Great Staple Tor. At Windy Post, a lone tog had asked us whether we were Canon men or Nikon men, as if there was some kind of badge we should be wearing that defined us. We scratched our heads. In Lee’s case he was a Canon/Nikon/Sony/David Hasselhof/Fujifilm/Rolleiflex/Kodak Instamatic/Box Brownie/Canon again/Sony again/Nikon again man. We just nodded, smiled and agreed that Windy Post wasn't working today. A few days later Lee was in bed, clinging grimly onto life with the mysterious disease known as “A Stinking Cold,” and groaning that a photography expedition would be too much for him. “Go on without me,” his whine came over pitifully on the Whatsapp. “I’ll only hold you back.” It was all too pathetic - we’d wait until he was well again. Reluctantly I contacted an understanding host, said we’d be back, and life moved on.
Somewhere towards the end of last year, it was agreed that another trip was due. Lee had disposed of all of the above camera systems (probably), and was now in possession of two exotic Leicas. Whether they’d bear fruit, he still wasn’t sure. By now the three happy clackers had fallen into an easy rhythm of heading off for a few days every second February. In 2018 we christened the new tradition with a winter wonderland at Glencoe, while in 2020 and 2022 we managed to time our respective visits to Snowdonia (or Eryri as my sister now insists we call it) and Somerset (or Somerset as we insist we call it) with monstrous storms. And while another dose of snowfall would be more than welcome, we really didn’t need any more tempests. We were done with cowering in our digs watching airborne trampolines zooming past the windows and waiting for the wind to drop below seventy miles per hour. For the bleak uplands of West Devon, rain and mist would be ideal.
This time, in recompense for his earlier failure to keep away from the microbes, Lee booked the accommodation - and a mighty fine billet he found us too. Dave and I immediately agreed that from now on, Lee was appointed Director of Housing. Not only had our host left enough tea bags to last a week, but we also found three freshly baked scones waiting for us on arrival. Next to them stood three pots of jam, and it didn’t take long to locate the clotted cream in the fridge either. What a lovely Westcountry welcome. I decided not to mention the fact I live five minutes walk from the place where they make the clotted cream - it might have seemed ungrateful. And then there was the underfloor heating. Lee had excelled himself. We’d overlook the fact that being on a working farm, it might be quite busy at 5am, but then again there was a plan to get up early on the first morning. And with fog and mist expected at the crack of dawn, it was a rare opportunity to go to the woods. Those woods.
Now I know you know. And you know that I know you know. There’s probably little point in maintaining a veil of pretence as to the exact location, but I’m going to beg your indulgence on this one. Yes of course it’s that famous woodland - the one we don’t talk about for fear of inviting massed hordes into its depths. Our new friend Carl told us a film party had recently asked permission to come here with a large smoke machine. At least there were only four of us creeping around benignly at half past eight in the morning, sheltering from the persistent drizzle that followed us wherever we went. Ok so the gloom wasn’t quite as thick as it might have been, but as things went, the gods appeared to be with us as we searched for the beasts who guard the forest. Here, I found two reptilian forms, swathed in deep green coats of moss and ferns, making their way across the ancient boulders. The one on the left looked spent, but any attempts to overcome him would surely be repelled by a rather fierce looking companion.
Five years on and we’d timed this visit well. No storms, no snow, just an agreeable blanket of misty morning doom. For a couple of hours we moved around the edges of the wood, entranced and enchanted by its curious inhabitants, nursing cups of coffee drawn from thermos flasks. Just now and then a composition might unravel from the chaos, although more often confusion ruled amongst the beasts. Beasts that skulked and plotted in the shadows as we shook the raindrops from our packs and wiped our cameras with whatever passed for towels. All too soon our time was up - the next rendezvous lay waiting somewhere nearby. We packed our gear away and left the guardians to their secrets. I could almost feel them watching our backs as we retreated into the fog once more.