From Ninney Lake to Knackersmill Gulf
Hill to a small un-named tributary bearing the scars of long-abandoned tin working and the remains of a number of Bronze Age enclosures. To those who know the moor this is Knackersmill Gulf. ‘Knack’ or ‘knock’ is thought to derive from Middle English for a sharp cracking sound, possibly referring to the noise associated with ore-crushing activities at one time common in the Erme Valley.
There is always something new to find or find out about on Dartmoor and sometimes it takes a fresh set of eyes to discover hidden gems. My blog can be found at
4windsnavigation.blogspot.com. Feel free to leave a comment!
More from the moor next month.
For those who would like to gain a nationally recognised qualification or if you would just like to explore a
different side of the moor off the beaten track, visit
email: enquiries @
4windsnavigation.co.uk or call 07971 954588 for full details
www.4windsnavigation.co.uk or
I hear the music of the soundless sweeping spread where, unseen, the distant lofty heights melt into sky:
I ask not why the misted breath of day deceives the shrouded eye
for, clearly, I see that earth and heaven meet and paradise lays open at my feet,
and yet, I think I see the outline of a rocky granite tor: Could it be I am upon some silent breathless moor with heaven all around.
Each note I hear sounds like a symphony upon the stillness of the air:
from where such music comes I neither know nor care for accommodating your visiting friends and family
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In a peaceful woodland setting next to the River Walkham
The Perfect Location
for, such is the brilliance of the mystic glow of light within the obliterating spread,
I’d swear, somewhere, a frosted morning moon is hiding from the gathering
of the night-time stars to seek their dawning bed.
If this indeed is paradise, it is a mystic sight yet bleak, and do I feel a gentle feathered splintering of ice brush up against my naked cheek!
If paradise is cold, yet warmly welcoming to bliss, then paradise is this,
a garden born of mystery where venerated angels watch and tread
but, perhaps, a lonely paradise when all but longings have been said
and reverberating echoes of all earthly things have fled. Diana Mudd
27
Misted Paradise
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