I hate Exmoor. No really I do. Whatever I said earlier was all a big, fat lie. If I gave the impression of liking the place then I’m sorry, it’s just not true. It’s rotten, it stinks, don’t go there. In fact I hate it so much at this moment that I’m going to have to sit down and drown my sorrows with cake (which might not actually be possible, can you drown in cake? But choking your sorrows on cake doesn’t sound as good and a lack of anything else suitably liquid and alcoholic means that the cake will have to do). I sit on the grass that smells strongly of sheep poo, giggling quietly to myself in a slightly hysterical manner and fish out the cake from my Camelbak. For the moment I’m going to concentrate on how gosh-darned good the cake is. A lovely moist slice of Simnel cake just like Mom used to make (mainly because in this instance she did) all marzipany and heavenly. Most of all I’m going to ignore the sodding signpost just behind my left ear. Think cake, mmmmmmmmm, think calm thoughts, marzipanmarzipanmarzipan, graaaaaaaaaaaghs

It’s no good I have to turn round and stare. The sort of spluttering incomprehension that the worst excesses of Connex rail services normally causes begins to well up inside me. I’ve been not lost exactly, but certainly unsure of where the hell I am, for the best part of half an hour now and now this signpost takes the frigging biscuit. I want to know where I am, I want to know if I’m on a bridleway and I want to know whether I’m heading in the right direction or whether I’m going to be staying overnight in Exeter. And what precisely does this finger post, this piss-poor excuse for a waymarking, this bastard piece of National Park designed wood, tell me? In one direction Aldremans’ Barrow lies six miles away and in the other, just six miles ride from this very spot, is, wait for it, yep, Aldermans’ Barrow. Oh FFS, at least you know where you are with cake, unless it’s Wiltshire Lardy Cake which is just too damn confusing (think an Eccles cake with the lingering taste of sausage rolls).

This section of the ride started so well – a clearly defined rocky bridleway heading out of the valley back towards the hills. At the first gate it was still OK, the track was a little fainter, but it was still clearly visible across the fields. At the next gate, again no problem, a set of signposts pointed back across the hillside helping me pinpoint my position on the map and the track was still fairly obvious. Three hundred yards later and nothing, nada, nichts niente. Whatever language you put it in the result’s the same – the trail’s vanished and I’m drifting cluelesly across the pasture. Even the sheep wandering aimlessly around next to me seem to have more idea about where they’re going than I do, all they want is grass whereas I want to get to Dunkerey Beacon before it gets dark. Undaunted I aim for what appears to be a gate in the corner of the field with the vague intention of getting my bearings there or discovering the rest of the trail. No such luck of course; I can no more relate where I am on the map than I can see anything like the right path heading from the gate. In fact, five or six small weasel trails radiate away from the gate, already I feel like curling into a ball and rocking backwards and forwards in the hope that this will all go away and proper paths will appear. This isn’t the first time either. About two years ago just a little further west I had exactly the same experience: fine clearly marked trails from the valley bottom that vanished into damp fields full of marrom grass and mud. Frustration, annoyance and a general feeling of ambivalence to the whole bloody place were the emotions back then and here they are resurfacing all over again. I stare disconsolately at a puddle full of teeming, writhing tadpoles and wonder whether I can join them as their current situation seems marginally less frustrating than my own.

Up ahead on the skyline I can see a pair of horses cantering along. So figuring that there must be a bridleway there somewhere I hack across to them on one of the tiny little paths, barely more than a long line of shorter foilage. Then again, as I survey yet another expanse of grass, stalks whisking in the breeze, I realise there might not be a bridleway here afterall. Nevertheless there appear to be more people over by another fence so I bimble over, desperately trying to get my bearings as I go. With a cheerful ‘Excuse me’ I roll up to Mr and Mrs Tweed-Jacket and pulling my billowing map out, I attempt to find out where the hell I am. Unfortunately they don’t know where they are either; they can offer me some vague clues but I’m buggered if any of it bears any relation to the paths vanishing away from me. There is at least a bridleway signpost now, but again it doesn’t seem to tally up with the map. And now some huntsmen and a pack of hounds have arrived, greeted with braying upper-class ‘Hellahs’ from my map reading friends, so I figure that anywhere is better than here and move off before they set the dogs on me for muttering anti-hunt slogans. First I get lost and now I end up having to get off my high horse whilst someone on theirs tries to sort out the mess I’m in; cue the sickly, indigestible taste of humble pie and a slow acid corrosion of my previously good mood.

I press on, black clouds crowding into the sunlit spaces of my mind, and come to a junction with a track heading through a fence. No signpost of course, it doesn’t even seem to be heading in the right direction, but the option is to go straight on pushing up a horrible looking hillside, so there’s no real choice for me other than to take it. So I carry on regardless, just me trying to find my way with a thousand uncaring sheep for company. But salvation is in sight, as I roll along the trail I can see a fingerpost in the distance. This must be it, I think, my chance to pinpoint where I am; vagueness, inaccuracy and navigational woes banished by a heaven-sent sign. Then I get closer; I read the words burnt deep into the wood and my heart sinks with a perceptible thump. I get off my bike. I sit down with a sigh. And I eat cake. I hate Exmoor, it’s shit. Don’t go there.

Dom Perry

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