The low clouds, heavy and weary with rain, sink lower still to smother gigantic Tors, whilst warm, peat-scented mist rolls over ancient granite and streams. This is Dartmoor; high ground where we live and breathe humid, nebulous air, moistened with gentle drizzle and where for days on end we view the world as if through a dampened veil. In this land of rugged beauty, a place full of green, cushion like hills and lush pasture we see twice the annual rainfall of our county falling on the uplands. But something magical can happen when sweet rain falls; when droplets gathers in the cobwebs laced across the prickly Gorse, crafting sparkling jewels of crystal clear water, when its softness bathes my early-morning, out-of-doors face and when I splash through the puddles in my wellington boots!
Up here on the moor I feel as free as the Stonechats who flitter from scrappy bush to stream. Solitary and secure, I plod onwards on my morning walk. Knees wet and cold I cheer myself by practising some real Devonshire dialect. Rolling my r’s around ‘rainin strames’, ‘fair ammering eeet down’ and lashins o’ rain’, I start to giggle out loud and startle some rabbits. Despite the chilly air, just ‘spuddling’ about in the Dartmoor rain is still the most joyous way of starting a new day!