#3: Hound Tor and Moretonhampstead, Dartmoor National Park

Unleashing the hounds, Hound Tor.

Wildflowers at Widecombe-in-the Moor churchyard.

It was hard to believe that Hound Tor was a natural formation. This pile of granite, inspiration for my favorite Sherlock Holmes novel, looked as if a giant had used boulders as toy blocks. I looked out over the moor, straining my eyes trying to see through the fog. The hills looked exactly as Conan Doyle described them, “russet and olive slopes” torn by wind. Amazing that the landscape still looked the same over a century later. As I walked back down the hill, towards the little stream at its base, I heard the breeze sweep between the stones, moaning like a lonesome dog. I sped up my pace a little, only half-jokingly remembering that the Hound of the Baskervilles lived around here.

            Dartmoor National Park felt ancient in other ways, too. My parents and I braved the twisting, sheep-dotted roads and visited three of the many towns scattered around the park. All three – Widecombe-in-the-Moor, Bovey Tracey, and Moretonhampstead – would’ve fit comfortably inside a small Atlanta neighborhood. Their houses and shops clung to the moor’s greener parts, determined to hang on in the wilderness. They were the kind of towns where churches were still the tallest buildings. Many of these churches were ridiculously old, dating from as far back as the 1100s.

Dartmoor had some of the most fantastic views in England!

The church in Moretonhampstead was my favorite. Its tiny stained-glass windows and moss-covered headstones looked out on a play park and smooth green hills. Above, an invisible line seemed to separate the inhabited land and the deserted moorland. The top of the olive-colored hill was literally purple with wildflowers. Tearing my eyes away from this color explosion, I looked at the church for a moment. So many important events had happened here: christenings, marriages, deaths. Lives had begun, ended, and been forever changed here, for centuries. The very air seemed to tingle with history.

            I followed my dad through the churchyard gate. The only other sound in the little graveyard was the whispering of the wind.