A day on Dartmoor has been something I’ve been looking forward to since I decided to come to England. The main draw, the super quaint village of Widecombe in the Moor. What could be more enticing than pubs & ponies.

The journey to Widecombe is a truly lovely one. Upon entering the Dartmoor National Park, the landscape changes immediately. As you steadily rise up from the valley, the forest makes way for grasses and windswept shrubbery.

The road is flanked with undulating grassed areas, frequented by sheep and the native Dartmoor ponies. Their constant nibbling at any stray strands of grass, makes them unofficial groundskeepers in my mind. The landscape becomes slightly more barren. Rocks become gigantic boulders that adorn the tops of the hills; Haytor being the tallest of these rocky outcrops. Only the sturdiest plants and animals sustain the rigours of the Moor. It may not possess the lofty heights of the Peak District, but the Tors really are something to behold.

The road ebbs and weaves around and in between the Tors, walkers out exploring the landscape dotted about the place. Upon reaching a plateau, the road edges down the crest of the hill revealing the most picture postcard valley. Squares of lush fields, segmented by their ancient rock walls, some empty, some with pastel Georgian houses. And there in the middle, is Widecombe in the Moor. It’s church tower shining in a pocket of sunshine gleaming from the west. No matter how many times I come down this road, the view still captures my breath every time. It is this England that many flock to this country to see, yet it never gets old.

The road narrows as it winds its way down the valley to Widecombe. The rock walls lined with twiggy wintery hedges make it a bit of fun for cars in the opposite direction. One more dip in the road and up into town, and the church of St. Pancras at its beating heart. The Old Inn, most noteworthy for its mixed grill breakfast of yesteryear, still takes pride of place opposite the old churchyard.

The Church is originally 14th century although the church house has stood since 1537, and has had many lives. Although now under the management of the National Trust, it was once a brewhouse, a schoolhouse and an almshouse. In the middle of the village’s only intersection is a ginormous tree with seating built in around its trunk, allowing you to sit and absorb the beauty of the architecture nestled in the rolling farmlands and the Moor.

As it always does the wind off the Moor picked up considerably, so a short walk down the road to The Rugglestone Inn for a tipple was in order. The Rugglestone was originally an old cottage before it became the grade II listed inn it is today. Stepping through the entrance with a ducked head, lime rendered walls formed a narrow corridor leading through to the front bar t0 the left. The front bar was perhaps the tiniest of any I’ve come across. Even by Devon’s standards, it is rather cozy. A solitary Georgian window in the deep-set external walls filled the homely room with light. Two round tables for two, adorned both ends of the bar, with a beautiful oak church pew that spanned the width of the window nestled in the middle.

At the end of the room was a small iron wood burning stove and another iron table for two. Nestled with a tipple in hand (a g+t in my case) it made for a rather cosy break from the biting wind outside. We got talking to an older couple down for the day from Maldon, who rattled off the entire British history of mixed drinks from the 60s! They’d been coming to the Rugglestone for the last eight years for a Sunday lunch. And why not, when you’re retired and when life is so, well, idyllic in the Devonshire countryside.

The sun was dipping and it was time to make a move to explore the Moor before it went behind the clouds for the day. A back road off from Widecombe opened up to the foot of Bonehill Rocks. Guarding the Rocks carpark was a herd of black Highland Cows, their largess more scary than their temperament and therefore rather indifferent to humans: more interested in the lichen growing in and amongst the grass and bushes.

Although gorgeous, the cows are not native or distinctive of the area. It was the Dartmoor ponies that I really wanted to see. Back in the car, we made our way back down from Bonehill, and down past Haytor when four ponies were just moseying along the edge of the road. Unlike their fellow highland inhabitants, they were far more agreeable to humans. Most likely their interactions with humans entailed being fed. Alas, they did make fabulous photographic subjects.

One pony stood proud, slightly removed from the rest. It was as if he were keeping an eye over the rest of them, and the humans they had stopped and were trying to get a little food from. He was the interesting one, standing there like the gatekeeper to the Tor. A little way to his right was a younger pony much more interested in nibbling any long stray strands of grass around the road’s edge. I tried soliciting his attention with a few click noises and it made no difference. The minute I put my hand out he lifted his head, keeping his eye on me. Finally, I got the shot I wanted. I’m looking forward to seeing them in the spring as well, but for now, another one ticked off the list.